He relished the sight of her cheeks flushing pink, and the agitated scrape of her fingernails against the leather of the armchair. She could not look at him, her nerves returning. Still, he had to give her silent praise for not fleeing the room, the moment she realized they would be entirely alone.
Somewhat wasted time, in his opinion, when there were more pleasant pastimes to enjoy in such privacy, but he was a gentleman; he would respect her wishes and desires.
Indeed, he had not known that she would be alone when he arrived at the manor, though he preferred it. He had been dreading the idea of having to make up some excuse to her father in order to get her by herself, to see that his debt was fulfilled.
“Goodness… I had not thought about that,” she mused, mostly to herself.
He made a noise of disbelief, regaining her attention.
“What?” she said curtly.
“You must have been out in society for… at least seven years by now,” he replied, counting in his head. “How have younotconsidered such things?”
She sniffed, resuming her turn about the room. “I have had other distractions.”
“Perhaps, that is why you are on a bolting horse toward spinsterhood,” he remarked with a playful grin that, judging by her withering look, she did not appreciate. “Let me phrase it this way—if your perfect husband was about to walk through that door, what would he look like? And you cannot describe me, alas, for that would show a rather limited capacity for imagination.”
She made a point of turning her back on him to observe some books, running her touch down the spines. “I… suppose I would want him to be kind and amusing,” she said, after a moment. “I would prefer a companion; someone who is not ancient but not a reckless boy; someone who… listens and can at least pretend to be interested in what I have to say. A friend in husband form, ideally.”
It would have been easy for Duncan to mock her, to pierce the air with a jesting whistle and tell her that she was asking for the impossible, considering her age and her position in the social hierarchy. Her options would be limited, there could be no sugarcoating that, but he was somewhat surprised by her list of preferences.
“You do not care if they resemble a toad that has been left out in the sun all afternoon?” he prodded.
She shrugged. “If they are nice and have at least some of those attributes I mentioned, I would not care what they looked like.”
“Balderdash,” he said abruptly, unable to hold the word in. “Everyone cares about appearances. And I have my honor to uphold—I could not allow you to walk down the aisle with a toad.”
She drew out one of the books, brushed away some dust, and slotted it back into the shelf. “Do your task well, and I will not have to.”
“I cannot believe you are turning me into a matchmaker, forcing me to join the ranks of painted matrons with loud opinions and wagging tongues,” he pretended to grumble, sweeping a hand through his hair. “Could I not just kiss you and give you a sum of money, and call us even?”
She blinked, her mouth agape. He could not deny how much he enjoyed shocking her. In truth, he was teasing her more boldly than he would usually dare to, for she did not strike him as someone who was easily stunned.
“No, you most certainly cannot!” she barked a moment later, recovering. “Honestly, for someone who was so insistent on fulfilling an obligation, you are complaining a great deal. Do not forget that I tried, over and over, to let you off the hook you fashioned for yourself.”
He smiled slyly, eyes tracing the rush of pink as it swept over her cheeks and down to her throat, little blooms of color appearing all the way to the neckline of her day dress. His gaze dropped lower to the astonishing sight of dirt, covering the skirts in dusty patches.
Does she garden?She did not seem like the type, but perhaps that was why she was daubed in mud.
“You are quite right, Miss Maxwell. I have hoisted myself with my own petard and must bear the consequences with all the grace I can muster.” He grabbed his tailcoat from where he had draped it across the arm of the settee, throwing it over his shoulder. “I shall consider your requirements and produce a list for your perusal.”
“That is it?” she asked, frowning.
“Did you want me to protest some more? I can, if you like?” he threatened with a soft laugh. “Or I could keep making alternative suggestions that would inevitably turn your entire face as red as a beetroot?”
“No!” she gasped. “Goodness, no. Yes, please do leave and make that list for me, and do not come back here uninvited.”
He moved toward her, just to see what she would do. “But how am I to give you my findings if I cannot be alone with you again? I doubt you would want me to read out an array of potential suitors, naming all their faults and advantages, with your father in the room, would you?”
He could still see the way she had trembled when he had approached her earlier, silhouetted in the window. He could imagine how it would feel to caress the nape of her neck, unfurling her beautiful auburn hair from the trappings of slides and pins that held it up, watching as it came tumbling down before he ran his fingertips through it, winding silky locks around his hand.
“There is a thing called the post, Your Grace,” she replied, holding her ground. “If you are unaware of it, I would urge you to ask your staff. They can see to it that a letter reaches me.”
He wagged a finger, hiding his amusement. “It would be better if you could see the prospects as I relay them to you. Description only goes so far—trust me.”
Her throat bobbed, her gaze lowering. “What do you suggest?”
“I could suggest many things,” he replied in a sultry voice, “but, in relation to the task at hand, you should rendezvous with me at the Croston Ball. I can point out your choices and you can speak with them, so you do not waste any more valuable time.”
