Chapter 8 #2
She had scarcely finished speaking before the impropriety of it struck her, for one did not instruct a duke so plainly nor issue him a directive as though he were a schoolboy in need of correction.
A flicker of unease passed through her as she measured the possibility that she had overstepped, that she had mistaken the latitude of her role for permission she did not possess.
Yet as Rowan rose, she saw no flash of offence in his expression; instead, something subtler and more unsettling took its place in his gaze.
His attention sharpened, his posture altered, and the habitual distance he carried seemed, if only slightly, to recede, as though her command had not diminished him but rather had drawn his focus fully onto her.
When his gaze met hers again, it lingered in a way it had not before, like it was newly alert.
“My apologies, I had not realized enthusiasm was now a requirement,” he said.
“It is not enthusiasm,” she replied. “It is intention. Women can tell the difference.”
That, at least, earned another pause. He crossed the distance between them at an unhurried pace, his expression guarded, as though he suspected some trap he had yet to identify.
Lucy turned to face him only when he was close enough to warrant it.
“Now,” she said quietly, “let us try again.”
Rowan inclined his head. “Miss Crampton.”
She waited.
“You appear…” He faltered, then continued, “… comfortable.”
Her brows rose. “You have just informed me that I resemble a well-upholstered chair.”
Rowan let out a sigh and nodded. “You are agreeable to behold,” he began after a pause long enough to betray the effort it had taken to arrive at the phrase.
Lucy waited.
“Also, you appear well settled in your surroundings,” he added.
Her lips twitched despite herself. “Do go on.”
He frowned faintly, as though sensing treachery but unable to locate it. “There is something reassuring about you,” he said at last. “Solid. Dependable. I could not help but notice you from across the ballroom.”
She tilted her head. “Your Grace,” she said mildly, “you noticed that I was solid and dependable from across the room?”
His mouth opened then closed again. A muscle worked in his jaw. “That was not what I meant.”
“I should hope not,” she replied. “I would be terribly disappointed to learn I move about a ballroom like a piece of furniture.”
He exhaled through his nose, a sound suspiciously like restrained laughter, before straightening his shoulders as though preparing for a second campaign.
“Very well. Let us attempt another approach.” His gaze swept over her with exaggerated seriousness.
“You are… striking, Miss Crampton. In a manner that commands attention without demanding it. A rarity. Much like a—”
She lifted a finger. “If you say oak, I shall leave.”
That did it. His composure slipped, just a fraction, and when he spoke again, there was a sharper edge to his tone, more familiar, more like him. “You are remarkably difficult to impress, Miss Crampton.”
“On the contrary,” she said lightly, “I am exceedingly easy to impress. You are simply impressing me in all the wrong directions.”
He studied her then, truly studied her, and she felt the intensity of it, the assessment giving way to something more curious. “You take pleasure in this,” he said slowly. “Turning my words upon me.”
Her smile was unapologetic. “You do it to everyone else.”
A pause followed, then his eyes narrowed, not in irritation but in recognition. “You are using my own manner against me.”
She inclined her head. “It is not so diverting when one finds oneself on the receiving end, is it?”
“Quite the contrary,” he said, surprising her with the warmth in his voice. “It is illuminating.” His gaze lingered, thoughtful now. “You understand my humor far better than most.”
Lucy felt a sudden, inconvenient warmth rise beneath her skin, and she forced herself to answer lightly, “I would say I am trying, Your Grace. It is still far too difficult to comprehend. Sometimes you say things that are completely diabolical.”
For a moment, he said nothing at all. Then, very softly, he smiled. “Thank you for the compliment, Lucy.”
Lucy felt the word before she fully heard it.
Her name settled between them, and she lifted her gaze at once, meeting his properly now, not as a coach assessing a pupil but as a woman suddenly, unhelpfully aware of the man standing before her.
He seemed to realize it at the same moment, for his attention faltered, his eyes drifting, only briefly yet unmistakably, toward her lips before he caught himself.
A low laugh escaped him, surprised, almost boyish in its lack of polish. “Did I do it?” he asked, tilting his head as though the question amused him. “Did I manage to flirt with you at last?”
The answer, treacherous and immediate, rose within her without permission. Yes. Entirely by accident.
But she refused to grant it voice.
Lucy cleared her throat, stepping back a fraction, reclaiming the sensible space between them.
“Not quite,” she said briskly, her tone all composure despite the lingering warmth beneath her skin.
“You have done nothing of the sort.” She gestured toward him with a decisive little motion, as though resetting a scene.
“We shall have to try again, I am afraid.”
“Oh, nonsense,” he said and shook his head. “I saw your reaction.”
“You merely caught me off guard by calling me by my name,” she retorted. “That is not flirting, Your Grace. You caught me by surprise.”
“So, how pray tell,” he asked, not teasing now, but genuinely curious, “does one go further?”
She considered him for a moment, then gestured vaguely toward the shelves lining the study.
“You speak as though conversation were a performance. It is not, Your Grace. It begins with recognizing something familiar in the other person, something you like.” Her eyes flicked back to him.
“It could be the lady’s appearance, her smile.
.. something you can build a conversation around. ”
He hesitated, clearly unused to being asked such a thing. “I’d like to think that I did a good job earlier.”
“You did not,” she said and regarded him for a moment then added, “You sound like Mr. Burke when you speak of society. Earnest, convinced of order, and entirely unwilling to admit that people might wish to breathe outside it. You’re so... rigid.”
His head turned sharply toward her. “Burke?” he paused. “You have read him?”
She shrugged lightly. “Who has not?”
A smile tugged at his mouth. “Many, I assure you. Most speak of him without ever having endured a single page.”
“I have endured several,” she replied. “Enough to know that he mistakes caution for wisdom and tradition for virtue. He fears change so deeply that he would rather preserve a broken system than risk mending it. You need to mend your system, Your Grace.”
Rowan folded his arms, amusement flickering in his eyes. “Or perhaps he understands that society is not a toy to be dismantled by those who do not have to live with the consequences.”
She stepped closer without seeming to notice. “Perhaps he underestimates the damage done by leaving injustice untouched simply because it is familiar.”
He studied her now, openly intrigued. “You argue like someone who has been told to be patient far too often. You refuse to understand where Burke is coming from.”
“But you defend him like a man who has spent his life bearing responsibility,” she returned. “Burke comforts you because he tells you that duty is noble and restraint is necessary.”
His brows rose. “You make that sound like an insult.”
“I mean it as an observation,” she said softly. “One I suspect you would recognize.”
For a moment, neither of them spoke. Then Rowan stepped closer.
Not abruptly, not with any display that might be mistaken for intention but with the certainty of a man who had decided he wished to hear her more clearly.
The distance between them narrowed until Lucy became acutely aware of the details she had no business noticing—the faint crease between his brows when he considered a thought, the way his mouth curved when he restrained a smile.
The way he looked entirely breathtaking for a man as stubborn and uptight as he was.
“Lucy,” he said, and the sound of her name, spoken again, unsettled her far more than it ought.
She should have stepped back. She did not.
“You must understand. Burke speaks of duty as though it were a shield,” he continued, his gaze lingering in a way that made it difficult to pretend this was still coaching alone.
“As though obedience to tradition absolves a man of having to question the harm it causes. You hear that as an excuse. I hear it as caution.”
Her breath caught, though her voice did not.
“Caution becomes cruelty when it is allowed to stand unchallenged,” she said, meeting his eyes even as she noticed, with clarity, that his attention had drifted again to her lips.
“You also must understand what I am trying to say. He writes as though patience were a virtue owed indefinitely and not a demand placed most often upon those with the least power to refuse it.”
A faint smile curved his lips. “You speak as though you have lived it.”
“What if I have?” she questioned.
They were far too close now. Lucy knew it, felt it in the heat of his presence and the way the room seemed to narrow around them.
This was no longer the safe, distant sparring of ideas.
It was something more intimate, more dangerous.
It felt, absurdly, like flirtation dressed up as philosophy, and the worst of it was that she did not wish to stop.
His smile deepened. “You argue beautifully.”
She felt the words land with far more weight than they ought to have. “That is not a compliment,” she said, though it sounded unconvincing even to her own ears.
“But it is,” he said, eyes warm now, intent.
Lucy swallowed, aware that she was still answering him, still engaging, when every sensible instinct told her she ought to retreat. Instead, she lifted her chin. “If this is your idea of flirting, Your Grace, you are doing it improperly.”
“Am I?” he murmured, glancing once more at her lips before returning to her eyes. “Then I fear Edmund Burke has failed us both.”
His gaze lingered there a fraction too long.
Lucy felt it like a spark along her nerves, and worse still, she knew that if she allowed another second to pass, he would see the effect of it.
The warmth rising to her cheeks, the slight, traitorous hesitation in her breath, all of it would betray her far more thoroughly than any careless word.
That would not do at all.
She stepped back at once, the movement abrupt enough to break the moment, though she disguised it by turning slightly aside, as if the conversation itself had reached a natural conclusion rather than a dangerous edge.
“Well,” she said lightly, “I suppose for a first attempt, one cannot expect perfection.” She gathered herself, smoothing an invisible crease in her sleeve. “You will require more lessons, of course. Repetition. Reflection.”
Her lips curved into a polite smile, one she hoped appeared calm rather than hurried. “Still, I will concede this much: you did better than average.”
His expression shifted then, something keen and knowing flickering through it, like he sensed precisely what she was doing and why. Lucy refused to acknowledge it.
“But we are not there yet,” she added briskly. “Not even close. We shall revisit this again tomorrow.”
With that, she inclined her head, the gesture neat and impeccably proper, and before he could reply, or worse, step closer again, she turned and made her escape, her pace quickening the moment she was certain he would not call after her.
Only when she reached the far end of the hall did she allow herself a breath.
It was ridiculous, she told herself firmly.
It had been nothing more than an exchange of ideas, spirited perhaps but hardly improper.
Yet her pulse refused to settle, and her thoughts lingered unhelpfully on the way his voice had softened when he said her name and on the look he had worn when he smiled as though he enjoyed being contradicted by her.
Lucy pressed her lips together, resolute.
Next time, she would keep a safer distance.
She would have to.