How to Marry an Earl (A Cinderella Society 1)

That was true. She blinked back the sting of tears. No time to fall apart. Cleopatra didn’t weep all over Marc Anthony. “I fear for him,” she said through the constriction of her throat. “He should be home by now.”

“Try not to fret. A peer is not so easily maligned.”

Unless it was by another peer. Another reason to suspect the traitor was well-heeled and well-connected. Lord Darrington might be guilty, after all. She had the sneaking suspicion that Conall had already set a man on him, just in case.

“Lady Culpepper must be beside herself,” he added.

“I imagine so. She will attend every event though, I am certain of it,” Persephone said. “She won’t give an inch to the gossips or the naysayers.”

“Good. What’s left to do then?”

“Tending to your acrobats,” she said, trying to sound calm. Adrenaline sizzled through her. She realized she was still gripping the newspaper and wrinkling it beyond the repair of a hot iron. She set it down carefully. “The artifacts have all arrived, the lecturers are secure and comfortable in their lodgings, the hall is clean and ready.”

“You are a treasure, Percy.”

“It was my pleasure, Your Grace.”

“One day you’ll run a museum to rival Bullock’s Egyptian Hall. To rival the British Museum even!”

“If only, Your Grace.” Right now, she would settle for clearing Henry’s name and having him safe at home. Having the funds to open her own museum was a distant dream.

“You’ll see,” the duke winked. “Why do you think I’ve asked you to help me with this festival? Now you have the experience and the stage on which to prove your skills to the world.”

“Is that why you’re doing this?” she asked, surprised. “Sneaky.”

“It’s one of the reasons. I want my Cinderellas happy and well taken care of. We need to show you off to all of the eligible young men.”

She groaned. “You’re not matchmaking, are you?”

“It worked well enough for you, didn’t it? I knew how it would be. Conall always did have a soft spot for you.”

She looked at him dubiously.

“Always made sure you were nearby when he played his violin. Never noticed that, did you?”

She blinked. “No, I didn’t. I’m sure that was a coincidence.”

“Ha! But there is also the side benefit of having the others gnashing their teeth in envy over my festival.” He rubbed his hands together. “And Snettisham might finally sell me that blasted gold torc he won’t stop gloating over.”

Persephone found Conallin the music room, a violin perched on his shoulder. She wondered if the duke was right. Had he really played near enough to her that she might hear him, all of those years ago? He called forth a few notes now, long trembling sounds that set the hairs on her arms to prickling. He had discarded his coat and rolled up his sleeves. His forearms were strong, lightly dusted with hair. She would have let herself be momentarily distracted if he hadn’t been frowning.

“Is the violin misbehaving?” she asked, stepping inside.

He tensed, hardness in his eyes, alertness in every line of his body, before realizing it was her. He smiled faintly. “I’ve been away a long time. She wants me to prove myself.”

“As she should.”

The storm cleared from his face if not the edgy vigilance. “You are looking well this morning.” He dropped his voice. “No soreness?”

A blush crept up her neck and into her face so hotly she half worried her hair might catch fire. “I am well.” In truth, she was a little bit sore, but it was a delicious soreness. The kind you earned with pleasure. He knew it too if the look on his face was anything to go by. “Oh, stop it.”

He chuckled softly and reached for her hand. She wasn’t wearing gloves again, they interfered with pencils and quills and there was too much to do. “But I don’t want to stop,” he said, pressing his lips to the inside of her wrist. He nipped gently and heat shot between her legs, as if he’d lit an invisible candlewick. She caught her breath. “You are delightful,” he grinned against her.

“And you’re teasing me.”

“Every chance I get, love.”

She was flustered and overly warm and had the ridiculous urge to giggle. Honestly, he was far too powerful. She could get drunk on him, like a port wine.