“I believe you feel both.” His Smirking Grace leaned closer still, his green eyes capturing hers with unsettling intensity. From this intimate distance, she could see flecks of gold near his pupils. “Then why is there color in your cheeks? Why do your eyes dilate when they meet mine?” His gaze moved deliberately over her face, lingering on her lips. “These are not the physical responses of mere shock, Eleanor.”
She pushed back from the table, standing abruptly. “You’re delusional as well as improper.”
“And you’re fighting a battle you can’t win.” He stood to his full height and crossed his arms and continued, “Your presence doesn’t disturb me. Your pranks don’t discomfort me. And I see through you enough to know you’re attracted to me and want my attention.”
Eleanor gripped the back of her chair, searching for a suitably cutting response. Before she could formulate one, Simmons appeared in the doorway and then froze, his eyes widening at the sight of the duke’s state of dishabille.
“Your Grace,” the butler stammered, addressing the duke. “I… that is… a Mr. Hamilton has arrived for Her Grace regarding a business appointment.”
“Excellent,” The unbearable man replied, his eyes still fixed on his wife. “Show him to the library, Simmons. I’ll join him momentarily.”
“Uh… Yes, Your Grace.” The butler’s eyes darted between them before he retreated hastily.
His Smugness smiled good naturedly at Eleanor. “I hate to end this delightful conversation; however, duty calls.”
“I asked to see him,” she said incredulously.
“I beg your pardon.” His smile broadened. “I shall take this meeting and any others the rest of the week. Did I fail to mention that any more sabotage shall also result in the loss of your rights one appointment at a time, one week at a time?”
He moved toward the door, then paused as she gaped at him. “And, Duchess? I’d strongly advise against further culinary surprises. The consequences might prove more revealing than you’re prepared for.”
With that parting shot, he left the room, leaving Eleanor staring after him in frustrated disbelief.
She sank back into her chair, trying to ignore the humiliation at being outplayed, not to mention the lingering image of his partially exposed chest and the disturbing warmth it had kindled. This was not at all how her plans were supposed to unfold.
Instead of being discomfited, the duke seemed to be enjoying their battle of wills, turning each of her attacks against her. Worse, he was right—she couldn’t seem to stop her eyes from returning to what he’d revealed, couldn’t prevent the heat that rose to her cheeks at his knowing gaze.
“This changes nothing,” she told herself firmly, reaching for her cold tea. “He still needs to leave.”
But a small, traitorous voice wondered what more he might reveal—about himself and about her—if he stayed.
Damien’s Inquiry
The Lyon’s Denlooked exactly as Damien remembered it—an elegant facade concealing secrets darker than London’s infamous fog. He approached not through the main entrance but via a narrow side passage that few knew existed. Three precise knocks on a weathered door brought a grizzled doorman whose eyes widened in recognition.
“Your Grace,” the man muttered, surprise evident in his gravelly voice. “Been some time.”
“Indeed it has, Hobbs,” Damien replied, pressing a gold coin into the man’s palm. “Is she in?”
“For you? Always.” Hobbs pocketed the coin and stepped aside. “Through the back stairs. She’s in the red salon.”
Damien moved through the dimly lit corridor with the confidence of long familiarity. Three years ago, he’d spent countless nights searching these rooms for Dominic, dragging his semi-conscious brother from gaming tables and private chambers. The Widow had always known where to find Dominic, though her information came at increasing cost as his brother’s debts mounted.
The red salon was The Widow’s most private receiving room, reserved for her most valued clients—or those whosebusiness required absolute discretion. Its crimson walls and heavy velvet draperies absorbed both light and sound, ensuring conversations remained contained within its luxurious confines.
The Widow was seated at a delicate rosewood desk when he entered, her silver-streaked hair arranged in an elegant coiffure, her black gown adorned with jet beads that caught the firelight. She looked up from the ledger before her, a smile curving her lips that didn’t quite reach her calculating eyes.
“The prodigal duke returns,” she remarked, setting down her pen. “I wondered how long it would take you to find your way here.”
“Bessie.” Damien inclined his head in a gesture that was part greeting, part acknowledgment of their complicated history. “You look well.”
“And you look troubled,” she countered, rising to approach a sideboard where crystal decanters gleamed. “Brandy? Or would you prefer something stronger, given the circumstances of your visit?”
“Brandy will suffice.” He watched as she poured two glasses, her movements graceful and economical. “I assume my wife has already paid you a visit.”
The Widow handed him a glass, her expression revealing nothing. “Client confidentiality is the foundation of my business, Your Grace. Surely you remember that.”
“I remember you were always willing to bend those principles for the right price.” Damien took a sip, appreciating the smooth burn of excellent spirits. “I’ve no doubt that my clever wife has paid you a visit. What did you tell Eleanor about my brother?”