Chapter Three
“The ring, Your Grace.”
Collins delivered the statement as if citing a point of law Ash had willfully ignored.
They stood in the front hall at Grosvenor Square, Ash already in his coat, a paper-wrapped posy of hothouse violets loose in his left hand.
Collins stared pointedly at Ash’s right.
The valet had been dressing dukes since before this particular duke had mastered a cravat, and he viewed the occupation as a sacred trust.
“What is wrong with the ring, Collins?” Ash asked, glancing down.
“It faces inward.” Collins did not sigh, but the air around him grew distinctly heavy. “A duke calling upon a baronet’s daughter must be immediately identifiable as such. The signet ought to face the world.”
Ash twisted his hand. His mother’s ring, a thin gold band bearing a worn cameo that predated the ducal crest, was indeed turned inward against his palm. He preferred it there, a quiet thing kept hidden from the ton.
Before he could argue, Collins reached over and rotated the band a sharp quarter turn. “There. Now you appear as a man who intends to be taken seriously.”
“I always look like a duke,” Ash murmured, adjusting his cuff. “The taking-seriously is entirely up to the lady.”
***
He took the carriage to Mayfair, breathing in the scent of horse and the sharp green promise of the plane trees along the squares. Eleven o’clock was an unfashionably early hour, chosen deliberately to circumvent the crowded drawing rooms and watchful chaperones of the afternoon.
He had spent an hour at his desk plotting the call like a hand of piquet.
He knew the precise compliments to offer, the exact angle of his smiles, the entire strategy required for women who desired his guidance.
Yet the woman behind the potted palm had refused to play her part.
She had countered his flirtation with a correction and rejected his waltz without a blink.
Her hands had trembled, but her face had remained maddeningly composed, a contradiction that had kept him awake far past his usual hour.
The Goodall townhouse sat in the narrower end of a respectable street, holding fast to dignity with polished brass and fiercely swept steps. A wide-eyed maid admitted him, her curtsy wobbling dangerously at the knees, and ushered him into the drawing room.
Imogen Goodall was standing by the window, and the morning sun streamed through the glass directly behind her, turning the thin muslin of her gown briefly, devastatingly translucent.
Ash stopped in the doorway. For a single, unguarded second, he saw the exact curve of her waist sweeping into her hip.
He traced the shadow of her stays, the faint ridge of boning against her ribs, and the soft, uncorseted dip of her figure below it.
She was entirely real, her body solid and warm beneath the out-of-fashion fabric, and a sudden, sharp pull of heat seized the base of his spine.
She turned, breaking the light, and the vision vanished before he was forced to account for it. She faced him with the composure of a woman who knew exactly what she wore and refused to apologize for the fraying hem.
“Your Grace,” she said, her voice perfectly level. “That is an early call.”
“I am reliably informed that eleven o’clock is an acceptable hour for a morning call.”
“It is acceptable from a vicar, or a physician.” She did not move from the window. “From a duke, eleven o’clock is either an emergency or an ambush. Which have you brought me this morning?”
Before he could answer, Aunt Margery materialized in the doorway behind her. The small, gray-haired woman blinked at Ash, then at the flowers in his hand, her mouth opening and closing as she produced a fragmented string of syllables regarding tea, the weather, and biscuits.
Imogen intervened with the smooth efficiency of a woman accustomed to managing her aunt’s social panics. Within moments, she had redirected the older woman toward the kitchens to supervise the tea tray, leaving the doorway blissfully empty.
Ash stepped forward and offered the violets.
Imogen accepted them without comment, holding the purple blooms briefly before giving them to the maid to set them in a small vase on the mantelpiece.
Beside the cheerful, ordinary garden daisies already there, the expensive hothouse flowers looked slightly embarrassed.
“Do sit down, Your Grace,” she instructed, taking the chair opposite.
She folded her hands in her lap, her back straight. There was no nervous fluttering, no dropped gaze, none of the predictable capitulations he had come to expect. She merely waited.
“I find it curious,” Imogen began, her tone conversational, “that a man who has successfully avoided noticing me for four seasons has suddenly remembered my existence on a Tuesday morning. Has Tuesday become fashionable?”
Ash leaned back, crossing one leg over the other, refusing to let her see how the direct hit amused him. “I noticed you on Saturday, Miss Goodall. You were hiding behind a palm, reading a book your aunt would surely not approve of.”
“My aunt was asleep, and my reading habits are therefore my own.”
“Do they always include scandalous French literature smuggled in your reticule, or was I privy to a special occasion?”
A flush swept up her throat. It was quick and pink, blooming just above the lace of her neckline, and the sudden color scrambled Ash’s carefully planned strategy.
He caught himself tracking the heat on her skin, wondering, with a dark, private spike of curiosity, what other provocations might make her flush, and how far down that pink stain would spread if his mouth were tracing her collarbone instead of his gaze.
He forced his attention back to her face.
“A lady’s reticule,” she said, her voice betraying none of the heat in her cheeks, “is the last territory in England a gentleman has no right to search. I suggest you do not attempt it.”
A laugh escaped him, the same unguarded sound from the ballroom. It left him feeling dangerously unmoored. “I yield the point. Tell me, then, since French novels are off-limits, what do you read when you are not actively ignoring the entire ton?”
“Whatever I please.” She tilted her chin. “Richardson, Fielding, Burney. Though they are hardly equivalent.”
“Enlighten me.”
“Richardson cannot stop staring at the things he claims to despise,” she said crisply. “Fielding is merely a cynic masquerading as a comedian. And Burney understands exactly what it costs a woman to sit in a crowded room while no one listens to her.”
The casual observation landed with a sharp, unexpected force. She delivered it without a trace of self-pity, turning the brutal reality of her social standing into a dry literary critique.
“And the Marchmont ball?” he prompted, leaning forward slightly. “How does it compare to Burney?”
“The orchestra was competent and the potted palms were magnificent.”
“And the company?”
Imogen met his gaze directly across the faded carpet. “The company was variable, Your Grace. Some of it was tolerable. And some of it was entirely uninvited.”
He ought to have parried. A light, dismissive remark would have smoothed the barb into a harmless jest, returning them to the safe, shallow waters of flirtation.
Instead, Ash sat in the worn chair and found himself thoroughly captivated by the fact that she had just insulted a duke to his face, and he had never enjoyed a morning call more.
Aunt Margery returned with a laden tea tray, depositing it on the low table with a rattle of porcelain that suggested she was already regretting her brief absence. The plate of biscuits accompanying the pot possessed distinctly charred edges.
“I assure you, Your Grace, the Cook is usually far more attentive,” Aunt Margery fluttered, her hands hovering uselessly over the cups.
“I have a particular fondness for culinary disasters,” Ash drawled, leaning back in his chair and offering her his most devastating, practiced smile. “They show character. Perfect pastries are always so terribly tedious.”
Imogen poured the tea without glancing at the pot.
Her hands were entirely steady, the worn blue china settling into her grip with the familiarity of daily use.
She handed him his cup, and in the transfer, her bare hand grazed his gloved one.
The pad of her index finger slid across his knuckle for a fraction of a second.
The contact sank straight through the leather. A sharp, unreasonable heat traveled up the inside of his wrist and simply remained there, humming quietly in his veins.
“Your character must be vastly entertained by now, Your Grace,” Imogen noted, completely ignoring the sudden tension in his jaw as she settled back into the chair. “Though I doubt you visit Mayfair drawing rooms actively seeking burned baked goods.”
He drank the tea to avoid answering immediately.
It was a middling blend, honestly brewed, entirely inferior to the expensive shipments his housekeeper hoarded at Grosvenor Square.
It also tasted remarkably better than any of them.
He lowered the cup, bracing himself for the inevitable barrage of inquiries.
Women always asked questions. They inquired about his estate, his horses, and his plans for the season, angling their conversation to match whatever mood they found written on his face.
Imogen did none of these things. She held her cup loosely in both hands and directed her attention toward the window, her gaze fixed on the street below. The sheer lack of performance unsettled him.
“You are remarkably deficient in curiosity, Miss Goodall,” Ash finally said, letting a touch of wicked amusement bleed into his tone. “We have been sitting here for ten minutes, and you have not yet asked how many thousands a year I possess or whether I prefer blondes or dark-haired.”