Chapter Twenty
With each tick of the clock, another butterfly in Eleanor’s stomach died.
He was late. Not just a little late, a full hour late.
If she had any pride at all, she would leave.
In fact, she’d gathered her bag and her first edition of Emma three times now, because waiting for a man when men were completely unnecessary was foolish.
But each time there was a jingle jangle, her eyes flew to the restaurant door and her heart leapt.
It had never been the Captain. As hard as it was to admit, she desperately wanted it to be him, so she’d sat back down and squared her book against the edge of the table, breathing through the urge to run.
Men might be unnecessary, but he was worth sitting there, however difficult that was.
Maybe he’d been caught in traffic. Maybe he’d gotten the time wrong. Maybe she’d gotten the time wrong. She hadn’t brought his letter along to double-check. Give him another fifteen minutes.
The bells sounded again, jerking her attention to the door.
Her leaping heart plummeted. The Duke of Strafford? Here? The restaurant was pleasant, but it was hardly the haunt of the beau monde. She should have been safe from his presence.
She slumped in her chair, hoping he wouldn’t see her. Scrambling, she opened her book. Why hadn’t she brought her larger, illustrated edition? That would have covered her entire face.
As Emma Woodhouse stared at her from the pages, judging her for her timidity, Eleanor snuck a peek.
He was heading in her direction. Dash it. She trained her eyes on the words in front of her:
Surprises are foolish things. The pleasure is not enhanced, and the inconvenience is often considerable.
“Tell me about it,” she muttered. How long would she have to sit there, hiding, before it was safe to leave?
“Miss Wright?”
The blood drained from her face.
“What a surprise to see you here,” he said. For someone whose last words to her were a condescending dismissal, his tone was oddly congenial.
She gritted her teeth. Absolutely nothing was going right in her life, not even this. She closed the book and straightened. She would face the enemy upright, at least.
“May I join you?” He didn’t wait for a response.
He pulled out the chair and sat with all the arrogance of a man who needed permission from no one for anything.
It was galling, the way he smiled at her, though no doubt he intended to be charming.
If the smothered giggles from the women two tables away were any indication, it was the kind of smile that would open doors and legs whether he was honest about who he was or not.
That she had initially succumbed to his brooding eyes and chiseled jaw, that her brain had taken leave at the sound of his thick and honeyed voice, that she’d equated the peppering of gray in his dark hair and the creases between his brows as signs of astute character were miscalculations she’d forever rue.
The duke was handsome, but so was Mephistopheles and she’d rather be seated across from an agent of Satan than this poor excuse for a man.
“No, you may not join me.” Other people might give him anything he wanted, but his title didn’t impress her. “That seat is taken. Shoo.” She waved at him.
“Shoo? Did you just dismiss me like a stray cat?”
She sucked in a breath. Yes. It had been instinct. That she couldn’t control herself in his presence infuriated her just as much as his presence itself. “No, I did not. I like cats. I shooed you away like a person whose company I do not care to have.”
His brows furrowed and he pressed his lips together as if holding back whatever retort had sprung to mind. After a moment, he sighed. “I might deserve that.”
“Might?” He had to be kidding.
He claimed the glass that was meant for the Captain and twisted it in lazy circles. She was tempted to snatch the blasted thing, but then he would know how much his presumption riled her. Instead, she twisted her napkin in her lap and imagined the linen was his necktie.
The cock of his head and the infuriating quirk of his smile suggested that her silence hadn’t fooled him at all.
“Your reluctance to dine with me is understandable, given the circumstances. We have been at odds of late.” He said it so matter-of-factly.
As though they’d been arguing over who would have the last scone and he’d decided to give up the fight and hand over the cream.
“At odds?” The words came out shrill. She reached for something to steady her.
She reached for knowledge to shore up her confidence.
He might have a title and be able to sit across from her unaffected, but he was in no way superior.
Settling her shoulders, she raised an eyebrow.
“Your characterization of our conflict is like saying Hannibal and Maximus were simply ‘at odds’ rather than enemies engaged in one of history’s greatest wars. ”
He cocked his head. “Was it great? Maximus refused to engage with Hannibal in open combat. It’s hard to respect guerrilla warfare.”
“One does what one must to win.” Get skin under your fingernails.
The smile he gave was almost conciliatory. “Your offensives are waged from open ground, without deception. You fight with integrity.” He raised the water glass as if toasting her, and it was like the room shifted. What fresh attack was this? Because it could surely not be the compliment it sounded.
If she had been smart enough to learn from history, she would have waged war like the Romans. Harnessing rage like a war elephant might have been honest, but it had not gotten her anywhere. How could you think to take him head-on, Eleanor? You should have been smarter than that.
“I’m surprised that you’re so well acquainted with Roman history. Surely grinding the world beneath your thumb leaves little time for reading.”
He gave her a look that could be construed as hurt. “I’ve studied many accounts of it. I often wonder how the world would look if the Battle of Ravenna had never happened. He gazed at her. “Imagine it.”
Strange. “What is it with men and the Roman Empire? How often do you think of it?”
The duke shrugged. “Once a week, at least. On occasion when my mind has nothing else to think of. Why’s that?”
She shook her head. “My friend expressed the exact same train of thought. I’ve read about the Roman Empire, but don’t think of it when not prompted.”
The duke swirled his water glass, staring at it rather than her when he asked, “Is this the friend you’re waiting on?”
The Captain. She scanned the room. The duke had blocked the view from the door to her table. What if the Captain had arrived and hadn’t seen her? What if he’d left, thinking that she hadn’t shown?
The duke’s gaze followed hers to the door. “You haven’t been left waiting, have you?”
“He is on his way,” she snapped, hoping it was true.
The duke raised an eyebrow. “He is on his way?” He leaned back with a smug look.
“Do you mean to tell me that in addition to your work during the day, running after Lady Wharton in the evenings, and waging war against me in your off-hours, you also have time for a personal life?” At first glance, he was teasing, but there was tension, as though the answer mattered more than it should.
She flushed. “My personal life is none of your business.” There had been a time she’d thought she and Peter might be friends, but then she’d found out that he was the duke and that his “friendship” had been nothing but a ruse.
He held his hands out in surrender. “No offense intended. I’m simply saying that your boundless energy impresses me.”
She struggled to suppress the emotional lift his compliment gave her.
She hadn’t felt impressive at all for weeks—she’d felt the opposite, in fact—and her damnable pride grasped at the validation, even if it came from someone whose opinion she did not care for.
At least, whose opinion she should not care for.
If she did care now, it was purely because her pride had been bruised and she would settle for anyone’s admiration.
“When do you do all the necessary things in life, like sleep, and eat, and read?” he continued, oblivious to his impact.
The question brought her back to certainty.
The duke was the devil. She hadn’t read nearly as much as she usually did over the past few weeks, largely because of him.
Sleep had been hard to come by too. Again, largely, because of him.
She was tired. Work was taking its toll.
For the first time in recollection, long days drained her when in the past they’d been satisfying.
But she would not confess that to anyone, let alone him.
She sniffed. “There are twenty-four hours in the day, Your Grace. Some of us make better use of them than others. Now, will you please go?”
One corner of his mouth quirked, as though it was itching to smirk. He shook his head. “I’ll stay until your friend joins you. Is he a friend? Or am I about to meet your paramour?” Again, tension flowed under the surface of his words.
A hot flush crept up Eleanor’s neck. “You overstep, Your Grace.”
He ignored the warning in her tone. “Call me Peter. Everyone calls me Your Grace. It gets tiring.” He picked up the rose and twirled it between his fingers before sniffing it. “This tardy ‘friend’ of yours is a paramour, I think. Is it serious? Is Miss Wright about to be a missus?”
She snatched the rose from his hand, as upset with his continued presence as she was upset at the Captain’s absence. She should have joined Lady Wharton at the ball instead of requesting a night off.
Eleanor was bulletproof when she was working. She was a sitting duck here.
“Will you just go away?” she spat. “Is it not enough for you to destroy every other part of my life? Do you need to ruin this too?”