Chapter 12 #3
The Duke blinked at her transformation, then exhaled slowly. His mouth twitched.
“Ye’re a stern one when ye want to be, lass.”
“That is the character,” she said coolly, though a flicker of amusement betrayed her. “Lord Farnleigh doesn’t suffer fools. Impress me.”
The Duke squared his shoulders and inhaled deeply, attempting the upright posture Elizabeth had insisted upon. Then, with an exaggerated flourish, he bowed too deeply and clipped her shoulder on the way up.
“Careful!” Elizabeth exclaimed, though laughter slipped out before she could stop it. “Well, that was certainly dramatic. Sadly, Farnleigh is not fond of theatrics.”
“I thought old Farnleigh might like a bit of flair,” he muttered as he straightened himself, eyes dancing with amusement.
“Think again,” she said, amused despite herself. “The man barely tolerates joy. Let’s try that approach again. Properly, this time. Please.”
The Duke drew a long breath and stepped forward again. This time, he offered a more restrained bow and said, “Lord Farnleigh, pleasure to make yer acquaintance.”
Elizabeth slipped easily into the role, straightening with all the hauteur of a crusty old peer. “So. You’re Scottish.”
“Aye, I am. Last time I checked.”
She added a sneer for effect, lifting her chin and narrowing her eyes. “From Scotland? Mmm. And you’ve come to London to seek favor from us, no doubt. That’s very enterprising. But you must persuade me more, Your Grace. What’s your view on the latest Bank Restriction Act?”
The Duke arched a brow. “It’s pure blether.”
Elizabeth pressed her lips into a flat line. “Try again. Subtle flattery, not flailing. Pretend it’s genuine. You can’t let it feel like a lie, even when it is.”
“Why should I flatter a man who sees me as foreign scum?” he gritted through his teeth.
“Because sincerity doesn’t win you power,” she said evenly. “Make him feel seen. Superior. If you manage that, he’ll chase your approval. And if it ever gets hard to swallow, remind yourself that you’re the one holding back, not him. You’re playing the long game.”
He looked at her then. “I see. Ye want me to lie sweetly, bonnie Elizabeth.”
There was something different in his tone now. Not mockery, but understanding, perhaps. Or determination. She hoped it was both.
“Yes. The same way I let men think I’m a meek little thing who just wants to be chosen,” she said softly, her voice catching in her throat.
He shifted again. This time, his stance was smooth, confident. The bow he offered was precise and polished, but the glint of self-possession in his eyes was unmistakably his.
“Lord Farnleigh,” he began, squaring his shoulders and adopting a more measured tone, his usual brogue softened just enough to mimic a proper London cadence, “I’ve heard tell of yer keen insight on the new fiscal policy and have admired it for some time.
To better grasp yer stance, I read yer essays in The Gentleman’s Review.
Yer thoughts on the scarcity of bullion were right enlightenin’, and they helped me sort out me investment choices. ”
Elizabeth let out a quiet gasp.
“You see, I can read, ye ken, Lady Elizabeth,” he added, smirking with obvious satisfaction.
“That was… not half bad at all,” she said, folding her arms and raising a brow.
She was genuinely impressed, though she’d be damned if she let it show too much.
“Of course it wasn’t,” he replied, mock arrogance coating every word. “I can be a bonnie liar when I’m properly motivated.”
So can I, Elizabeth thought, but she also wondered how often he’d employed that skill, and what else he might have lied about.
“Well, do try not to look like a fox that’s just eaten the chicken, Your Grace,” she advised. “We can’t have you looking smug while praising Lord Farnleigh’s essays.”
The Duke exhaled dramatically and closed his eyes as if steeling himself. Then, he repeated the entire monologue with a straighter face, his voice a touch more clipped, more composed.
At the end, he added smoothly, “I do hope to share the wisdom I’ve gained with me own affairs at Redmoor as well.”
“Ah, graceful,” Elizabeth said, nodding. “Well done, Your Grace.”
“I wish I didnae have to say such things,” he muttered, feigning a shudder. “I can near enough picture me ancestors stirrin’ in their graves.”
Elizabeth pressed her lips together, trying, and failing not to smile. Helping him like this had brought her a confidence she hadn’t expected.
Perhaps it is easier to teach someone else what you can’t always apply to yourself.
“Next,” she said, “you must learn to pause. Listen more than you speak. I believe you’re already good at that.”
“Aye, I am,” he said. “Though usually when I’m plannin’ to interrupt.”
She gave him a dry look. “When listening to Farnleigh, nod thoughtfully. Furrow your brow now and then. Just a little, don’t overdo it.”
“I’ll look constipated,” he grumbled.
“You won’t,” she said, laughing. “You’ll look thoughtful. And please don’t forget: he’s very proud of his landscaping. Compliment it. Praise the grounds. Even the drainage.”
The Duke groaned. “God help me.”
Elizabeth grinned. “It’s either that or exile from polite society.”
“Then I suppose I’ll be flatterin’ his hedges like they cured the plague.”
She laughed again—freely, fully—and realized that with the Duke, the lessons weren’t just for him. Somehow, he made her feel like she wasn’t floundering either.
The Duke sighed heavily. Then, he gave a small nod. “Teach me more, Lady Elizabeth. But we’ll need to strike another bargain, aye.”
“Another deal?” she asked, suddenly sounding suspicious.
“Use that voice ye use, an’ I’m willin’ to take on all the humiliation ye can throw at me.”
He still looked so serious that Elizabeth had to raise an eyebrow.
What was the man up to?
“Ye might no hear it yerself, but ye’ve got this soft wee lilt when ye’re explainin’ how to handle Farnleigh. Makes me feel like I’m some sort of project ye’re secretly fond of. Whether ye’ll admit it or no.”
There it was. That arrogant smirk. That devil.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Your Grace.” Elizabeth blushed and looked away.
“I’m not bein’ ridiculous. I just like it, is all.”
She swallowed. “Let us move on. What sorts of topics should one use with Farnleigh and men like him?”
“Mmm. Should I bring up Mozart?”
Elizabeth flushed, suddenly remembering Lord Huntington and her own flustered defense of him to Wilhelmina.
I wonder how she’s faring at the milliner’s. Has she finished?
“Perhaps,” she murmured. “Just remember he wasn’t German.”
“No?”
“Austrian.”
“Close enough,” he said with a wink, entirely unrepentant. “By the way, thank ye for the lesson. Ye’ve paid yer debt handsomely, Lady Elizabeth.”
She arched a brow, wary of the sudden glint in his eye.
“But did ye notice somethin’?” he went on, lowering his voice slightly.
“What?”
He cast a slow glance around the shop, then leaned a little closer.
“It’s gone quiet over here. Suspiciously quiet. Seems to me it’s the perfect moment for a lesson. This time from me to you.”
“Here?” she asked, eyes narrowing.
Her mind immediately flew to the twins, who were not far off, still busy examining sweets and arguing about which toffees were superior.
“Aye. Here,” he said, voice low and coaxing. “Can ye think of a sweeter place for a lesson in seduction?”
He picked a pale pink macaron, the one he’d been eyeing for far too long.
Her eyes widened at his remark. Instinctively, Elizabeth glanced around to check if anyone was close enough to overhear what he’d just said.
Thankfully, no one appeared to be paying attention to the scandal-in-the-making: an unchaperoned young lady and a wickedly rakish Scottish duke, standing a touch too close in the corner of a sweet shop.
“Excuse me?” she asked, incredulous.
“Aye. Our next lesson involves sweets,” he said, his grin slow and wicked. “It’s in how ye eat them.”
“Completely absurd,” she said, cheeks burning.
“But is it, really?” he asked, raising the macaron to his mouth.
She braced herself for him to pop it in all at once, something big men often did, but no. He bit into it deliberately, slowly. His tongue flicked out to catch a crumb. His lids lowered as he savored the flavor like it was something decadent and forbidden.
Elizabeth’s breath caught. Her chest tightened under her bodice and her stomach clenched.
It was absurd. It was indecent. And she couldn’t look away.
When his tongue darted again to gather a smudge of sugar at the corner of his mouth, she nearly whimpered.
“Do ye see now?” he asked, voice velvet-soft.
“Theatrical,” she managed, eyes narrowing.
“That’s the intention,” he said, plucking another macaron and holding it out to her. “Now, yer turn.”
“I am not doing that,” she said quickly, even as the macaron hovered between them like a dare.
“Are ye afraid, lass?” he murmured, tilting his head.
“Of looking ridiculous in public? Yes.”
“Ye’d look far more daft trippin’ over yer skirts while curtsyin’ to one of yer fine lords than flutterin’ yer lashes over a wee macaron,” he countered, leaning closer.
She huffed, but she didn’t back away. She never did when he challenged her.
Gritting her teeth, she snatched the macaron from his hand and bit into it—slow, polite, precise. The kind of way she’d been trained to eat her whole life.
He watched her, unimpressed. “Has anyone told ye that ye eat like a little bird?”
“I—what?”
“Too dainty. A wee bit twitchy,” he said, tapping his temple. “Try again. This time, savor it. It’s not just eatin’. It’s seduction. 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.