“Lady Huxley,” he said, standing, “I apologize for wool gathering. I’ve a meeting in a few minutes, and I’m afraid my mind is set on that.”
She stood, pulling up to own every one of the very few inches she possessed. She came up not even to his collarbone. He’d have to bend in two to kiss her. Or find a box for her to stand on.
“I understand. We will talk more another time.”
“Join my sisters and I at Hyde Park. We walk weekly. Lottie will tell you when.”
Her mouth thinned a moment, as if he’d said something to displease her, but then she shook the irritation away. “Thank you, Your Grace. I will join you. We still must decide, you understand, if we suit one another.”
A reminder that nothing was guaranteed.
He was not panicking. The sweat on the back of his neck was because of the fire, and the need to run and hide because… because…
He nodded and sidestepped toward the door, waving at his sisters. “I’ll be in my study.”
“Yes, of course.” Andromeda tapped her toe, a sure sign of worry.
Lottie stood, shoulders thrown back in fighting style. “Samuel—”
“Quite busy. We’ll speak later.” He did not necessarily run from the room, but he didn’t walk either.
He sank into the chair behind his desk feeling like a fox who’d just darted into the hole in the earth that might save him. Do. Not. Panic. There was nothing wrong with Lady Huxley. She was everything a duchess should be and perfect for his purposes. Attraction, lack thereof, did not matter. Not for a sensible marriage.
Last night had been… magic. That kiss… sublime. He’d been awash in its simple glory and brimming with terror that it would never happen again. Itwouldnever happen again. That one kiss must last him a lifetime. He’d be grateful for it without greedily needing more.
His index finger traced against the top of the desk, in and out up and down, a steady rhythm he knew well. The same one he’d completed over and over again in the last thirteen years to calm himself. His mother’s name carved into the corner of the desk by the tip of his father’s knife—Rose. It had been there as long as Samuel could remember. His father had told him once that carving her name, over and over, helped him think. Usually, the reminder of how well his parents had loved one another helped Samuel, too. Not today. Today it seemed to slice splinters into his skin.
The name Lady Huxley didn’t fit neatly into the four letters of his mother’s name immortalized with adoration. Neither, ironically, did her given name Rosalie. The similarities in the two women’s names should be a sign—the widow was the right woman for him.
Samuel jumped to his feet and paced across the room, snapped open the ornate box set into the bookshelves, and ran his finger just above the row of shining knives nestled in red velvet. Perfectly balanced. They would balancehim. He chose one and faced the opposing end of the room. A plank of wood hung there with a ring of concentric circles painted on it. His father had taught him this. Push all distraction to the edges ofhis concentration. Focus on what he could feel—the wooden hilt of the blade, the weight of it in his hand—and steady everything he could control. Breath and body and brain, slowed and ready. He tossed it, hit just outside the bullseye. The whack of the blade into the wood vibrated through him. He could do better. He could control this if nothing else.
He chose another blade and focused on that slim single point where the knife must hit. Only one way there, direct and sure. He inhaled, relaxed his arm, and—
The door opened, shattering his concentration, just as he flicked the blade into the air.
Yet the knife still hit the target, if not its center, and he allowed himself a satisfied grin before facing the intruder. His butler Mr. Jacobs and a woman.
Bloody hell,what a woman. She lifted a single red brow above brilliant blue eyes, and a knife hit him right between the ribs. He almost looked down to see if red spilled across his waistcoat. Ridiculous. All the same, though, he smoothed his hands down his torso—dry—and tugged it tight at the bottom, only just stopped himself from straightening his cuffs.
Heknew her.
He’dkissedher.
He’dtoldher things.
Bloody hell. If his cheeks were as red as they felt, he could bring lost ships back from sea.
“Your Grace,” Jacobs said, “Lady Emma Blackwood to see you.”
The matchmaker.
And the moon maiden.
The only woman in Christendom who knew exactly how bloody pathetic he was.
No, she knew how pathetic Samuel Merriweather was. The Duke of Clearford did not suffer humiliation. Ever. And hewould marry because he must. He did not languish for the sake of love.
“Thank you, Jacobs,” Samuel said, snuffing out his embarrassment all at once. Trying to. “That will be all.”
