Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
“Did you really believe Lord Huntington had nuance in the way he listened to Mozart and Beethoven?” Wilhelmina wanted to know.
While Elizabeth’s younger sister seemed to have taken everything in stride, she didn’t forget about how suddenly her sister had become the belle of the ball, even for a brief moment.
Meanwhile, Elizabeth could still see how Lady Grisham had been pleased, but that she intervened when the conversation had veered into “too familiar” territory.
“I believe that we must say adieu for now. We must thank our hosts and go home. My lords, we thank you for your time,” Lady Grisham had said.
When they were on their own, her stepmother looked at her with some wonder and murmured low enough to keep between her and Elizabeth: “I don’t know what was going on, but whatever it is that is you’re doing, keep doing it.
Still, we can’t linger too long with the same group of men unless one formally expresses a desire to call on you. ”
“I understand, Lady Grisham,” she replied, her voice calm even though her heart was fluttering with relief.
For once, no reprimand. No insult. Not even a pointed sigh.
But the relief was short-lived.
The sensation prickled at the back of her neck first: a strange tightness, as if someone had caught her in their sights. Her spine straightened before she even realized she was searching for the source.
She scanned the room, past feathered fans and careless smiles, past the candlelit lords in pale coats and jewel-toned waistcoats.
And then she found him.
The Duke of Redmoor. Standing still in the sea of movement. Watching her like a storm contained behind a pair of green eyes. His arms were crossed, his expression unreadable, but the tension in his jaw, the fire in his gaze… it struck her like a blow.
He looked angry.
No, not angry.
Possessive.
As if every laugh she shared and every glance she cast had been a promise broken.
Her breath caught. Heat surged to her cheeks, but not from shame, from something dangerously close to exhilaration.
She forced herself to look away, to face Lady Grisham again and pretend she hadn’t seen him.
But her traitorous, eager pulse throbbed in her throat.
She could still feel his eyes on her. Watching. Waiting.
And this time, she wasn’t sure she wanted him to stop.
Two days had passed since the musicale, and yet Elizabeth’s thoughts remained stubbornly entangled with the Duke of Redmoor.
Now, even as she walked stiffly beside Lady Grisham through the bustling market, surrounded by Wilhelmina, the twins, and their long-suffering governess, her mind refused to settle.
The magic of that night, of those moments in the dark room, of his voice brushing against her skin, had dimmed. Not vanished, but flickering, like a candle in a draft.
The breeze was uncooperative, tugging at her bonnet until it slid askew, forcing her to constantly right it. The gesture was starting to feel symbolic. Even her bonnet refused to behave properly.
“Now you’re quiet,” Wilhelmina said, nudging her with a gloved elbow. “Two nights ago, you were practically a seasoned flirt. Today you look as if you’ve been sent to a convent and just found out they don’t serve tea.”
“Just recovering from the musicale,” Elizabeth murmured, her tone flat—too flat.
Wilhelmina narrowed her eyes. “Two days later? You don’t recover that slowly. Not even when the programs are unbearably long and the sopranos shriek like banshees.”
Elizabeth sighed and adjusted her bonnet again. “It’s up to you whether or not you believe me, Mina.”
Wilhelmina hummed, clearly not convinced. Before Wilhelmina could press her further, the twins chimed in with perfect, chaotic timing.
“Can we go to the sweet shop?” Victoria asked, tugging at Elizabeth’s sleeve and bouncing on the balls of her feet.
“You’ll spoil your appetite for the luncheon,” Lady Grisham said sharply, not even glancing their way. “And you eat far too many sweets as it is. Not good for your health. Certainly not for your waist.”
Victoria pouted dramatically, thrusting out her lower lip in protest. Beside her, Daphne’s shoulders slumped with silent disappointment. Neither tantrum nor quiet melancholy impressed their mother.
“I’ll take them, Lady Grisham,” Elizabeth said quickly, her hand reaching for Victoria’s. “With their governess by my side, I daresay we’ll manage. You could take Wilhelmina to the milliner’s and look at ribbons.”
Lady Grisham pursed her lips, clearly weighing the risks. “They’re not to have too much. And Victoria, do try to learn some self-restraint.”
“Yes, Mother,” Victoria said, her voice syrupy-sweet.
Elizabeth knew it was pure performance. Likely, so did everyone else.
“Five minutes,” the marchioness relented at last, narrowing her eyes. “Not a second longer. We are not here to dawdle.”
Elizabeth dipped her head. “We’ll be swift, my lady.”
As they turned away, she mouthed a quick “sorry” to Wilhelmina. But when she glanced back, expecting exasperation, her younger sister only gave her a sly wink, which startled her enough to nearly trip on the curb.
Moments later, they reached the sweet shop. The windows were lined with jars full of candied violets, barley sugar, and ribbons of boiled sweets in every shade imaginable.
The door chimed brightly as Victoria flung it open—and promptly collided with someone’s waist.
She bounced back with a startled squeak, looking up. Far, far up.
Elizabeth froze.
Standing in the threshold, towering over the girl and holding the door steady with one hand, was a tall man with windswept russet hair and a coat collar turned rakishly up.
None other than the Duke of Redmoor.
His hand reached instinctively to steady Victoria, who blinked up at him with wide eyes.
“Well now,” the Duke said in his low Highland burr, “is that how young lassies greet strangers in Mayfair these days? Barrelin’ through the door like a cannonball?”
Victoria blinked up at him. “You’re very tall.”
“Victoria!” Elizabeth shouted, equal parts protective and aghast at her sister’s behavior.
The Duke tilted his head as if considering the accusation. “That, or ye’re very wee. Could be both.”
Meanwhile, the meek twin, Daphne, stepped forward, her posture graceful despite her obvious nerves. She reached her sister first and executed a careful curtsy, eyes wide and worried.
“Forgive her, my lord,” she said softly, her cheeks blooming pink. “She didn’t mean to. She just loves sweets so very much.”
Elizabeth arrived just in time to hear the apology. She placed a steadying hand on both girls’ shoulders, breath catching when she met the duke’s eyes.
Of all the people to run into—literally—why did it have to be him?
The Duke, for his part, didn’t seem the least bit put out. In fact, he looked rather entertained. His lips curled in a faint smile as he crouched slightly, bringing his imposing height a bit closer to the girls.
“Is that so?” he asked Daphne. “Well then, it seems I’ve run straight into trouble.”
With a theatrical flourish, he reached toward Victoria’s ear and, without warning, produced a small wrapped sweet between his fingers.
Daphne gasped in delight. “How did you do that?”
“A Highland trick,” he said solemnly, offering her the sweet with a wink. “We’re taught it right after walkin’ and before swordfightin’.”
Although she widened her eyes at the sudden appearance of the sweet in her palm, Victoria turned it over suspiciously, then looked up at the duke with narrowed eyes. “You talk funny.”
“Victoria!” Elizabeth snapped, mortified. “That is not how we speak to a duke.”
But Alasdair only laughed, low and rich.
“Your Grace, I deeply apologize for my sister’s brashness,” she told him, curtsying.
“Lady Elizabeth,” the duke said, deliberately enunciating her name, his lips curling into a grin. There was a glint of mischief in his eyes—so different from the stormy expression he’d worn the last time she’d seen him. “Seems fate’s taken quite a liking to tossin’ ye into me path.”
Elizabeth met his gaze, steady despite the sudden warmth rising in her chest.
“I’m beginning to agree with you, Your Grace,” she replied dryly, willing herself not to linger on the way his grin made her pulse quicken.
Their eyes held for a moment too long. Something unspoken passed between them. Curiosity. Heat. Something that felt dangerously like anticipation. It was enough to make her breath quicken, enough to make her forget where they were for the span of a heartbeat.
Then mercifully, he turned to Victoria, who stood beside him with her arms crossed and her nose scrunched, as if trying to decide whether to curtsy or interrogate him.
“To answer yer question, wee hurricane,” he said, crouching slightly to her height. “I’d sound funny to ye, lass, because I’m Scottish.”
“You don’t sound like the other duke we know,” Victoria retorted.
“What my sister means, Your Grace, is that we know another duke,” Daphne said. “Our brother-in-law is one, and he doesn’t talk like you.”
Elizabeth could only shake her head.
“Well, that’s because I am nae like him. I’m nae like any dukes ye ken,” the Duke said with a smirk directed at Elizabeth.
He turned to Daphne this time, gave her an exaggerated wink, and reached toward her other ear. Another sweet appeared between his fingers as if conjured from thin air. Daphne gasped and clapped her hands, eyes round with wonder.
Victoria’s mouth fell open in disbelief. “How did you—? You must’ve hidden it!”
“Did I now?” he said innocently, slipping the sweet into Daphne’s hand. “Or maybe I’ve a bit of Highland magic about me.”
“More like Highland trickery,” Elizabeth muttered under her breath, though a reluctant smile tugged at her lips.
He caught it, of course.
“Trickery can be useful, me lady,” he murmured, his gaze lingering just a moment too long on her face. “Especially if it makes a lady such as ye smile.”
Elizabeth looked away quickly, cheeks warming, cursing the part of her that fluttered at his words.