Chapter 11 #2
“My father says that Lord Gwanton is an admirable fellow; one hates to see snobbishness from someone like her—”
“—such bravery, to show her face—”
Clio pretended she heard nothing, even as she wished she were still listening to the prattling about horses.
She pretended this so well that, after a moment, all the voices abruptly stopped.
Or, no. She glanced up toward the front entrance of the house and found her own breath catching in her throat, too.
The sudden silence was because of the appearance of the Duke of Metford.
Hector, her mind whispered to her. Like the hero of old.
She pushed that voice down. One ill-advised kiss was not a reason to begin referring to a man by his Christian name, and he certainly was not her hero. Even if he had rescued her from likely death. With impressive strength.
But there had been no gallantry! None at all!
His eyes were intent on hers as he descended the steps; he seemed to think that none of his other guests even existed. And maybe the rest of the world had disappeared, for she could see nothing but him, either.
He looked far more genteel and polished than he had upon her first acquaintance with him.
Nobody, not even the most high in the instep nobleman, would accuse him of being a shopkeeper now.
No, he practically radiated ducal authority.
She could nearly feel it making the earth tremble before him as he descended.
Beautiful. That was the word for him, little as she wished to admit it. He looked utterly, staggeringly beautiful in the way that an avalanche was beautiful from afar, in the way that flames were beautiful before they singed you.
One of the tittering women—a particularly bold one, in Clio’s estimation—stepped directly in the duke’s path, a sycophantic smile pasted across her features.
“Your Grace,” she purred, dropping into a curtsy that was very obviously designed to give the duke a peek down her gown. “I was so pleased to receive your invi—”
He stepped around her.
“Clio,” he said, loudly enough for anyone to hear, and God above, she was never going to live down the past scandal if he insisted on heaping other new scandals atop it. “You made it.”
“Your Grace,” she said pointedly, not that she truly expected this to have any effect. It wasn’t like he was stupid. He knew what he was doing. He just didn’t care that he was doing it.
The cad.
He grinned at her and, oh, it was devastating, what with his newly trimmed hair and clean-shaven jawline.
“Please,” he said, his Northern accent temporarily absent, and she knew he was mocking them all, mocking their rules and their obsession with manners. Nobody else knew it, though; one of the ladies sighed audibly. “Call me Hector.”
Clio considered kicking him in the shins.
She settled for glowering, though it was decidedly unsatisfying. He grinned more broadly and offered her his arm.
She had no choice but to accept, or else cause even more talk. He knew it. She knew it. And, worst of all, he knew she knew.
Lord, Clio was starting to give herself a headache.
She accepted his arm, though she was extremely begrudging about it. Mouths gaped at them as Hector—to hell with it; she might as well give in, at least in the privacy of her own thoughts—led her into the house, though Phoebe looked as though she might drop dead with delight.
“You do realize,” she hissed out of the side of her mouth as soon as they were away from prying eyes, “that this is no way to get a wife.”
“I fail to see your logic,” he returned easily, his accent back in full force. Clio felt her shoulders unclench slightly at the sound of his rounded tones. Annoying.
“You gave that woman the cut direct!” she scolded. “You should be at least meeting them first.”
“Why should I? I already know who I want to take to wife.”
He said it so casually, as though this was not a great admission, not that he was merely willing to marry her, in order to enjoy a mutual benefit, but that he wished to marry her.
It wasn’t a declaration of any affection, Clio knew. It wasn’t as though he would have chosen to marry her if he didn’t already need to marry. She was a known quantity. She understood that.
But still. It wasn’t nothing.
But she wasn’t about to let herself be affected. That would be letting him win.
“You do realize that you could probably have your pick of the lot,” she reminded him, as breezily as she could manage. “You know, if you show them a modicum of politeness.”
He snorted. “I’m not going to put on some false front just so that I can trap a poor woman into thinking she’s marrying a different man than the one she’s truly getting. You and I understand one another.”
“That is … true.” She hated to admit it.
And, because Hector was no sort of gentleman at all, he didn’t let her slip go.
“That might be the first time we’ve ever found ourselves in agreement, Clio.” There was something frustratingly sensual about the way his accent wrapped around the vowels of her name.
She searched frantically for lightheartedness. Anything to hide the fact that she had to suppress a shiver.
“We agreed on punching Gwanton,” she said weakly.
He laughed, a pure sound of genuine, startled humor. It was a lovely sound, and it brightened his face considerably enough that she, too, laughed at the pure joy in his expression.
“See?” he said. “Surely there are worse starts to a marriage than hating the same blackguard.”
She pursed her lips. This was getting away from her.
“I could be your ally,” she said, but her tone had the desperation of someone who knew this was their last trick. “I could help you sort through your guests, help you find the kind of woman who would suit you. And you could help me convince my brother to let me return to the Continent.”
He paused and pressed a hand to her cheek. It was a soft gesture, not quite proper, of course, but as close as he’d ever gotten.
“Aye, but that would not aid me at all. As I already know what woman would suit me. And I have no intention of letting her escape to the Continent.”
Clio could feel the place where his smallest finger touched the thrumming pulse in her neck. She’d never been so aware of the movement of her blood through her body.
“You said I could choose,” she said weakly.
He smiled, and that smile was deadly. It could be used to prevent wars, she was sure. All he had to do was direct it appropriately.
And then, it grew wicked enough that she realized it could start wars, too.
“You can,” he said. “But that doesn’t mean that I’m going to fight fair.”
And then he turned and left to prepare for dinner, leaving Clio wondering how, exactly, this whole thing had spiraled so desperately out of her control.