“Too dainty. A wee bit twitchy,” he said, tapping his temple. “Try again. This time, savor it. It’s not just eatin’. It’sseduction. Let it show on yer face. Make me believe it tastes like the grandest pleasure ye’ve known.”
God help her.
She stared him down and bit again. Slower this time. Her lashes fell. She licked a crumb from the corner of her mouth, let a small sigh escape her lips, and opened her eyes in a languid sweep to meet his.
Then, with purpose, she finished the rest, tongue brushing her lower lip as she did.
He was staring. Absolutely still.
Then he blinked, like someone shaken from a spell.
“Ye’re an apt pupil,” he said, voice rough. “Very apt, aye.”
“You look a little flushed, Your Grace,” she said sweetly, pointing to his cheek with one gloved finger.
“Of course I am. I’m warm-blooded.”
She picked up another macaron, lifting it between two fingers. “Should I try again? Or have I already scandalized the man who titillates London society by his mere presence?”
He groaned, rubbing a hand over his face like it pained him. “Lass, ye’ve no idea. Ye scandalized me from the moment ye walked in.”
Before she could respond, the twins came barreling back in, arms loaded with bags of sweets. Their governess trailed behind, looking sheepish and thoroughly defeated.
“Ladies,” the Duke greeted the twins again, straightening.
“Goodbye, Your Grace. Thanks for the sweet again,” Daphne said, dropping into another curtsy.
“Until next time,” he replied, though his gaze lingered on Elizabeth alone.
Then, he paid for the sweets both he and Elizabeth had consumed, and finally, like a wraith, he slipped through the shop’s side door and disappeared.
Had the twins and their governess not been there, Elizabeth might have wondered if he’d been real at all.
“Why was the Scottish duke staring at your face like that?” Victoria demanded, scrunching her nose.
“Was he?” Elizabeth asked lightly. But when both sisters stared at her with knowing looks, she relented with a quiet, “No reason at all.”
“You’re blushing, Lizzie,” Daphne observed, peering up at her. This, despite having sugar on her lips and a streak of taffy across her cheek.
“It’s warm in here,” Elizabeth said, brushing past them. “And you both took far too long to choose your candy. I believe our five minutes are long gone.”
The twins groaned. They knew what that meant.
As they stepped into the summer sun, hands sticky with sweets and hearts full, Elizabeth couldn’t bring herself to feel any regret.
A smirk tugged at her lips as she thought of the afternoon’s lesson and the man who had turned a simple macaron into something wholly—deliciously—indecent.
Chapter Thirteen
“Patience, patience,” Alasdair muttered to himself, the words a quiet chant of discipline.
Lord Farnleigh’s townhouse was exactly as he’d imagined: austere, cold, and carefully ordered to the point of sterility.
The furnishings were polished and the rug immaculate, but the arrangement lacked imagination. There were no flourishes, no warmth, no invitation. In Alasdair’s eyes, the room was a mausoleum of status, a shrine to correctness without soul.
Even the light was deliberate. Slatted sun filtered through half-drawn curtains, casting neat stripes across the carpet. Not a single shaft of unruly sunlight was permitted.
For a man so enamored of his own importance, Farnleigh preferred shadows.