Chapter Three
Lucas Grisham, the Duke of Conwyn, looked down at the pretty redhead’s face, her eyes wide and her mouth dropping open in an expression of such blatant shock, he was almost tempted to reach out and close it again.
The young woman had no subtlety. If she wasn’t careful, someone might see her reaction and know something had happened between them.
Little lamb, sent to Canterbury’s den as a sacrifice to his relentless appetite. The earl had intended Miss Jameson for his wife, but it was clear this lamb’s cream-and-peaches complexion had caught his eye.
Irritation stirred in Lucas’s chest at the thought.
“I was walking,” he said to Canterbury dismissively, and he raised his brows pointedly at the lady. “I believe we have yet to be introduced.”
Canterbury cleared his throat and put a possessive hand on her arm. For a second, she glanced down, brows pinching and her lip curling.
She had not looked like that when Lucas had kissed her.
Curiosity had been the thing to compel him to kiss her. He did not ordinarily interest himself in debutantes, but she had not known him from Adam, and she had held her ground as he’d approached.
She had been intrigued by him, and he had liked it.
“This is Miss Gwendoline Summers, Your Grace,” Canterbury said. “Miss Summers, meet His Grace, the Duke of Conwyn.”
Lucas bowed. “A pleasure, Miss Summers.”
Finally gathering herself, she inclined her head. “Your Grace.” The words came with an Arctic sneer. So she was an angry lamb. How charming.
“Are you wanting to play, Your Grace?” Miss Simone asked.
“The duke doesn’t go for such dull entertainment,” Canterbury said with an infuriating titter.
Lucas reached out and took the mallet directly from Miss Summers’s hands. “Oh?” he asked, raising a brow. Canterbury, too, didn’t often go for this dull entertainment—it was the earl’s penchant for excitement that had led him to being deeply in debt to Lucas himself.
A debt he intended to collect.
Canterbury flushed, his face turning blotchy. “I meant nothing by it, of course.”
“Of course.” Lucas took aim and swung the mallet.
The ball bounced over the lawn and, as he had known it would—indeed, as he had aimed—it landed in the bushes near Miss Summers’s ball.
“Ah,” he said, his voice still mild, amused by the ever-deepening shade of Canterbury’s face.
“It seems I have not the skill I thought.”
One of the ladies went next, and Lucas deliberately did not look directly at Miss Summers. For all he had enjoyed their interlude, he had no intention of making his interest in her too plain or putting her in a position where she might be compromised.
After all, he was a scoundrel, but not a cad.
Once they had all taken the first strike, they strolled to their respective balls.
The hoops were far enough apart that it was entirely too easy for the balls to go off course, and just as he had hoped, no one had hit the ball with as much enthusiasm as Miss Summers.
Thus, he was able to follow her across the lawn to the bushes, fighting a smile at the way her shoulders stiffened in indignation.
“You never told me you were the Duke of Conwyn,” she hissed as soon as they were out of earshot. All this without looking at him, her lips barely moving. “What did you think you were doing?”
“If you are unaware, I evidently need to improve my technique,” he said, bending in a pretense of looking for his ball; he had already seen it to his left. “I was kissing you, little lamb.”
“Well, I didn’t appreciate it!”
“So it seems.” He bit back another grin at the glare she fired at him. “Though may I point out that you enjoyed it all the same.”
“No,” she said icily. “You may not. And, for your information, I did not enjoy it. Your Grace.”
“Lamb,” he murmured, leaning in, noting the way her nostrils flared at his proximity, “you are far from the first woman I have kissed, and I can say with certainty that however you may feel about it after the event, during it, you did enjoy yourself.”
“You are exceedingly full of yourself.”
“Perhaps,” he allowed. “Does this distress you?”
“You distress me.” She found her ball and positioned her mallet before it as though she wished it were his head. What intriguing defiance. “I recommend you get out of the way, sir.”
“Fear not,” he said, stepping clear. Just in case.
“I have no intention of betraying our prior meeting. But, if I may, allow me to warn you against spending too much time with Canterbury. However you may feel about spending time with me, I beg you, do not give him the opportunity to be alone with you.”
She swung the mallet with vicious energy, similar to that which she had displayed before, and the ball left their bushes. “Just because I made the mistake of not fleeing from you immediately does not make me a fool,” she said, dropping the mallet and striding away.
Adorable.
He liked her entirely too much.
He had not come here for a distraction, but as he watched her retreating figure, he rather suspected he had found one, anyway.
*
Miss Bellatrix Jameson arrived shortly after the game of pall mall had ended. In her early twenties, she was the opposite of Gwen: tall, dark-haired, self-possessed, and so composed that even Lord Canterbury’s immediate fussing over her did not provoke more than a patient smile.
For her part, Gwen was just relieved his attention had been diverted from her. Attempting to smile and ensure all body parts were free of Lord Canterbury’s reach was an arduous task.
She most certainly thought nothing—absolutely nothing at all—about the Duke of Conwyn. Who, to her relief, had paid her no mind since they had parted ways in the garden.
This was a good thing. He was a rake who had kissed her—and who now had the power to ruin her if he so chose. She didn’t like him.
At all.
“Dinner will be served in a moment,” Lord Canterbury announced, taking Miss Jameson’s arm possessively.
Aunt Mary hissed under her breath. “If he is to disobey convention, must he do it for her? I heard her mother was a nobody. And her father’s wealth, for all he has plenty of it, came from trade.”
“There are worse things,” Gwen said. “I think she seems nice.”
“She seems as though she is commanding Lord Canterbury’s attention, that’s for sure.” Aunt Mary shoved Gwen forward with a hand between her shoulder blades, and she stumbled forward. “Do something, girl, or you’ll lose the prize.”
Gwen caught herself, certain everyone in the room would have seen her trip. But when she glanced up, only the duke’s gaze was on her, eyes glinting hard and unforgiving. She felt herself flush. Of everyone, of course it would have been him.
Right on cue, the dinner gong sounded. Aunt Mary reached out as though to shove at her again, but before she could, the duke stepped forward and offered her his arm. “Miss Summers,” he said, the teasing gone from his voice now. “Would you do me the honor of accompanying me through to dinner?”
Gwen blinked up at him, not certain if this was some sort of joke. But no; he was watching her carefully, a bland smile on his lips and an expression of—could that be concern in his eyes?
She ought to refuse him, but he was providing her an escape from Aunt Mary, and so she slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow. “Thank you, Your Grace.”
“Do you know,” he said in a more conversational tone as they made their way to the dining room, leaving Aunt Mary behind, “that was the first time you haven’t said my title with a sneer?”
“My apologies, Duke. I will attempt to do better.”
“That’s more like it.” He looked down at her in approval, one dimple appearing in his cheek. “I would hate you to be too polite to me.”
“And why is that?”
“I would be concerned about your general wellbeing.”
She glanced at him as he guided her to her seat and pulled the chair out for her. Then, to her surprise, he sat beside her. “Why are you sitting there?”
“Because this is my seat, lamb. Canterbury took some persuading, but I prevailed.” He leaned back and crossed his legs, looking utterly at ease in this space as though he had been born here.
“I thought it unfair that he claim the attention of two ladies over dinner, so I allowed him one and claimed the other.”
“How sporting of you.”
He smiled at her, both dimples flashing now. “Did you know, when you glower, your eyes practically spit sparks?”
That was, without a doubt, the oddest compliment she had ever received. Yet, for some reason, she found she liked it.
“It’s a rather pleasing change,” he went on, as though he had not silenced her with his unconventional remark. “Most young ladies see me and either aspire to be my future wife or are terrified of me. Or both, of course.”
“Because of your reputation?” she asked, finding her voice.
His brows rose. “What would you know of my reputation? When we first met, you didn’t so much as recognize me.”
All she knew about the duke was what she had gleaned from the other ladies. “I know you’re a rake,” she said.
“A rake? How charming a term.” He laced his fingers together, an expression of polite interest on his face. “Do go on.”
“You cannot be a gentleman because a gentleman would never kiss a lady upon first acquaintance.”
“Do me justice,” he said, his tone perfectly mild. “We had not at that point had the honor of being acquainted.”
“That makes it all the worse!”
“Does it? My apologies. Would you rather I kissed you now?”
Her jaw hung loose, which only made him grin more. He was saying this deliberately to rile her up—and worse, it was working. “You are—incorrigible!”
“Why, lamb, that’s the nicest thing you’ve said to me all night.”
Gwen glowered at the bowl of soup the footman had just placed before her. Her lips tingled, as though she had just stepped away from his kiss, and when she glanced up, it was to find his attention wholly on her mouth.
Heat ran through her. This was insanity. Surely, someone ought to have noticed his attentions to her by now—but when she looked around, everyone else, including Aunt Mary, was otherwise engaged.