“Not the master’s chambers?” He raised those expressive eyebrows again. “How disappointing.”
“The master’s bedchamber awaits no master,” she replied coolly.
“Another item for our negotiation, then.”
As he strolled toward the door, he paused beside her, close enough that she could see the faint lines at the corners of his eyes—evidence that the duke was perhaps not quite as youthful as she’d first thought.
“You know,” he said conversationally, “when I received your proxy marriage proposal, I assumed you were an aging widow desperate for protection. Imagine my surprise.”
He lifted her hand before she could withdraw it, brushing his lips across her knuckles in a gesture that should have been proper but somehow felt scandalously intimate.
“This arrangement,” he murmured against her skin, “may prove far more interesting than either of us anticipated.”
Eleanor snatched her hand away, ignoring the tingling sensation his touch had evoked. “Eight o’clock, Your Grace. Don’t be late.”
His laugh followed him out the door. “I wouldn’t dream of keeping my duchess waiting. Not when there’s so much to explore.”
Left alone, Eleanor sank into her chair, staring at the half-empty decanter of brandy. She would need to visit the Lyon’s Den again—to demand an explanation from The Widow about why her carefully arranged plan had collapsed so spectacularly.How could a woman who had built her reputation on finding solutions for ladies in difficult situations have failed to foresee this possibility?
Her proxy duke had returned, upending her carefully ordered life with his green eyes and maddening smile, and she had a sinking feeling that getting rid of him would prove far more difficult than acquiring him had been.
She poured herself a measure of the brandy he’d been drinking. Tonight’s dinner would require fortification—and strategy. By the time the meal was concluded, she would find a way to send His Grace packing back to whatever Far East port he’d crawled from.
No matter how enticing his thighs.
“I trust theblue bedchamber will be to your satisfaction, Your Grace?” Simmons asked as he led Damien up the grand staircase.
“I’m certain it will serve admirably,” Damien replied, already noting the delicate crown moldings and careful attention to detail that marked every inch of the house. Eleanor Sinclair—Westmore now—had excellent taste.
The butler opened a set of polished mahogany doors to reveal a spacious chamber decorated in varying shades of blue and silver. A fire already crackled in the hearth, casting a warm glow over the plush furnishings.
“Your man arrived with your trunks earlier, Your Grace. He’s waiting to assist you.” Simmons gestured toward a lean, weathered man standing at attention near the wardrobe.
“Thank you, Simmons. That will be all.”
When the butler departed, Damien let out a long breath and loosened his cravat completely.
“I see you’ve managed to infiltrate the enemy camp, Your Grace,” his valet remarked dryly.
“Hardly an enemy camp, Graves.” Damien shrugged out of his jacket and handed it to the older man. “Though my duchess seems less than thrilled by my arrival.”
“And was Her Grace everything you expected?” Graves asked as he moved to the wardrobe to select appropriate evening attire.
Damien crossed to the window, gazing out at the carefully manicured gardens below. “No,” he admitted quietly. “She was nothing like I expected.”
Nothing in The Black Widow’s correspondence had prepared him for Eleanor Westmore. He had, at best, anticipated a plain woman of advancing years, grateful for his title’s protection. Instead, he’d found a young, strikingly beautiful woman of perhaps eight and twenty with a spine of steel and eyes that flashed like sapphires when provoked.
“Graves, what did you learn about her while I was being received?”
The valet paused in his preparations. “The staff speaks highly of her, Your Grace. Apparently, she’s known for her charitable works—donates to an organization that rescues women and children from brothels. Runs some sort of hospital in one of the poorer districts. They say she visits twice weekly without fail.”
“A philanthropist,” Damien mused. “How lovely.”
“The late Mr. Sinclair was an amicable fellow. He readily engaged his wife in matters of business. Mr. Abram was their solicitor. The housekeeper was particularly venomous about him.”
“The solicitor was the executor?” Damien shook his head. “How foolish of Sinclair.”
“Indeed, Your Grace. According to the cook, who’s been with the household for twenty years, the late Mr. Sinclair neverintended for Abram to have such control, but the wording of the will left unfortunate loopholes.”