The Deception (Baron 3)

“I think, your grace,” she said slowly, stepping away, sideways, pulling the strings at the throat of her cloak, “that you have perhaps mistaken the matter. Truly, I’m not a wench.” She turned to face him fully, the light of the candle branch on the mantelpiece behind her, and drew back the hood of her cape. The duke drew up short. He felt as if someone had poked him hard in the belly with a very big fist. This wasn’t a serving girl. This certainly wasn’t a wench of any stripe.

He wasn’t quite certain what he had expected, but the young lady who faced him, her chin high, fit no image he would have conjured up. He stared at her white skin, her high cheekbones, flushed from the heat of the fireplace, and her proud, straight nose. Her hair was neither brown nor blond, but somewhere in between, a strong, opulent color, and like the rest of her, it looked to be rich and full and soft as a lamb’s fleece. She had it drawn into an ugly knot at the back of her neck. There were loose tendrils cupping her face. Very nice tendrils. She was beautiful. Not as beautiful as some women he’d seen, admired, and bedded. No, her face wouldn’t launch even a hundred ships, but, oddly, she was more than just the sum of her parts. What was she, then? That face of hers held mysteries and a richness of expression and shadows that begged to be explored and plundered. Her eyes were brown, on the dark side, which sounded plain and not at all interesting, only it wasn’t at all true of her eyes. Again, there was this richness, this hidden cache of secrets. They slanted slightly upward, an almond shape that struck a familiar chord in his mind.

This was absurd. He was staring at her as would a starving man at a feast. He’d had a feast just four days before in London. Surely Morgana was more than enough for any man, even if he’d starved for a year. Then, despite himself, he looked at her face again, watching as her wide mouth slowly curved into a smile. She showed lovely, straight white teeth.

“I hope you will soon be finished with your examination, your grace. I’m beginning to feel like a slave on the block. Shall I keep smiling?”

“Yes, you’ve got a charming smile. You’re wondering if I’m going to decide to buy you?”

He’d gotten her on that one. He saw those fascinating eyes of her widen ever so slightly. But she wasn’t a coward. Nor did she seem the least bit afraid of him. She said, with just the slightest hesitation, “I was actually wondering if perhaps you subscribed to the belief of your ducal ancestors, that every woman who came onto your acres was at your beck and call.”

“Of course,” he said.

“Of course what?”

“Naturally I subscribe to such a notion. Perhaps it’s outdated, but I have to ask myself why a woman would force her way into my private domain if she didn’t want me to see her as a bed partner.” He realized that he wasn’t being at all a gentleman, closer to being a bastard actually, not that the two were necessarily unrelated. But if his scrutiny and roughness of manner upset her, she gave no sign. She didn’t move, merely stood there, looking at him and, dammit, he wondere

d what she was thinking as she looked at him.

As she continued to be silent, he said slowly, trying to be less intimidating, “I think that it’s time for you to tell me exactly who you are, and what it is you are doing in my library.”

Those eyes of hers, their shape—why was it so familiar to him?

She found that she was examining him almost as closely as he had her. He had changed not one whit from her girl’s image of him; he still seemed as large and overpowering now as he had six years before. His dark features were more finely honed now, his face was lean and hard, but just as perfect. No, there were differences. His eyes had seen a lot more than that young man six years before. That young man had known only pleasure, had experienced only the willfulness and wildness of youth. But this man, he’d experienced a lot as he’d gained in years. He’d learned and suffered, and it showed in his eyes, on his face.

“Aren’t you going to answer me?”

“Yes, I suppose that I must.”

When he’d strode into the room, one boot tucked under his arm, Evangeline had wondered how she was going to get through this. He was in a foul mood— that was readily apparent—but she hadn’t particularly minded. What bothered her was that he didn’t have a clue who she was. That hurt, even though it would be a miracle if he had known who she was. Finally, she said, “Don’t you recognize me?”

He’d already stared at her too long. He merely shrugged. “Why are you angry? Are you perhaps a discarded mistress? It couldn’t have been too long ago because you’re very young. Yes, if I dismissed you, then I suppose you wouldn’t be pleased at my forgetting you.”

She said, her voice as cold as a block of ice, “I was never your damned mistress.”

“No? I hope not, because that would lead me to believe that you’d borne my child and were here to collect. That would be upsetting, surely you’d be willing to admit that.”

She stood stock still, words lying in shambles about her tongue. She just stood there, staring at him stupidly. “I didn’t have your child.”

“Well, I’m relieved. I don’t believe a gentleman should have bastards scattered around the county. It doesn’t speak well of him or of his family. So, we didn’t bed together, then. Who are you?”

“When last I saw you, your grace, if you had taken me to your bed, then you would have been guilty of molesting a child.”

He was still looking at her in that odd way. Now he cocked his head to one side. She was impertinent. She was, it seemed to him, testing him in some way. That was surely odd. He would outdo her; at least he would try. He flicked a nonexistent bit of lint from the arm of his jacket. “Since that is something that turns my belly, I’m pleased it wasn’t the case. Just how old are you? Still silent? Ah, a woman and her age. You never seem to begin too young with your coy protests. You could show me. I have the reputation of judging a woman’s age nearly to the very year and month of her birth by studying her breasts, her belly, her legs. Aren’t you overly warm in that thick cloak?” He watched her swallow. He’d just bet her mouth was really dry now. No one could best him, in particular this unknown girl standing here in his library.

She realized then that he was a gentleman of the first order. She opened her mouth, only to see him slash his hand in front of him and say, “Enough games. Who the devil are you?” “Yes,” she said. “I’m warm.” “Then let me help you off with that cloak. You are safe. I’ve never been drawn to rape, ma’am. Whatever virtue you still possess is quite safe with me.”

“I can’t imagine you would ever have need to resort to such a thing. Also, just think of what it would do to your name.”

“Is that some sort of backhanded compliment? No, don’t answer that.” He watched her untie the strings of her heavy wool cloak and slip it from her shoulders.

“Before you decide to examine my person, your grace, let me tell you that it could be considered a very rude thing to accord such treatment to your cousin.”

“Cousin? The devil. You say you’re my cousin? Now, that’s an impossibility.”

“You’re right. I’m not precisely your cousin. Actually, I’m your cousin-in-law. Marissa was my first cousin, my father’s niece.”

He stared at her dumbfounded. It made her feel better that finally she’d managed to halt him in his tracks. That certainly must be some feat. Then he searched her face for the likeness to Marissa.