The Deception (Baron 3)

Startled, Evangeline looked at the duke, who was seated at one end of the small table, just lowering a newspaper. He wore a buff jacket and light brown knit riding breeches, exquisitely tailored from what she could see of them. His dark hair was tousled, his complexion healthy and tanned. He’d already been outside, probably riding along the cliffs.

He was without a doubt the most exquisite man she’d ever seen in her life. But then again, she hadn’t seem all that many gentlemen. Perhaps those in London would put him to shame, although she tended to doubt it.

She realized she was staring at him and quickly looked down at the toes of her slippers.

“Is something wrong, Madame?”

Yes, she wanted to tell him. You’re what’s wrong. It’s painful for me to look at you. I held you in my child’s memories. I’d hoped you would look differently now, but you don’t. I’ve lost my mind.

She said coolly, getting a hold on herself, “No, nothing, your grace. Just a moment of visual distress.” She thought he laughed. She remembered suddenly how she had envied Marissa all those years ago, lucky Marissa who had secured his hand. But Marissa hadn’t been so very lucky. Dead when she was but twenty, in an accident, she’d heard.

She gave him a wicked look, a look that was quite natural for her to give to him, a look that seemed to have been waiting inside her, for him to come so she could give it to him. And she knew he liked that look, all that wickedness that promised everything, yet only promised. She shrugged, seeing no hope for it. He was giving her a bland, very knowing smile, as if he knew what she was thinking. Well, he was right. Why not tell him? Her wicked smile grew sharper when she said, “Actually, I was thinking that you look splendid.”

He sat back in his chair, his arms crossed over his chest. “A dose of French candor. I thank you for the compliment. If I were a lady, I could preen and demand that you become specific in your compliments, but alas, I’m a gentleman and thus I must take the general compliment and content myself with it. But I do wish I knew what the specifics were in this case.” The wicked smile faded. “Have I embarrassed you? Yes, I believe that could be called a discreet flush starting on your neck. Come and sit down. Mrs. Dent has prepared a breakfast that will have us feeling fat as geldings.”

She refused to look at him again as she slipped into the chair on his right. She knew he was no doubt quite used to being shamelessly flattered, to being endlessly admired, undoubtedly to being compared to a god.

No, he wasn’t a god. She remembered Houchard’s graphic descriptions of the duke’s likes and dislikes, particularly when it came to women, and wanted to sink through the floor.

No, none of that would come to pass. The duke would never see her as anything more than a fully dressed penniless widow here to take care of his son, if only his son would cooperate and adore her at first sight. He mustn’t ever see her as a woman who admired him more than was proper. Bassick, smiling at her, poured her rich black coffee, then, after nodding to the duke, left the morning room.

She was English, she’d always said about herself. She wished she could smash the French part of her out of existence. The funny thing was that even as a child, she’d never liked the heavy English breakfasts, but she’d been thinking about him, about this damnable situation, about what Houchard had told her, and piled her plate high with kidneys, scrambled eggs, kippers, and bacon. Slowly, not wanting to draw attention, she shoved the plate away and reached for a slice of toast. She began spreading it with thick butter. “You didn’t sleep well.”

Evangeline nearly choked on her mouthful of toast. She forced herself to chew slowly. When she swallowed, she took a sip of

coffee, then gave him a cool smile. “You’re wrong, your grace. How could one not be perfectly content in such a beautiful room and a comfortable bed?”

“I suspect that anyone wouldn’t sleep particularly well in a new place. Did you hear strange noises? The castle rattles and moans. When there’s a storm off the Channel, you sometimes think you’ll be buried beneath a pile of stone. You’ll become used to it.” “Yes, I can see that would be possible. You’re right, for a moment there I’d forgotten the moans and the chains rattling.”

He didn’t smile, merely toyed with his fork. “Do you always come awake ready to fence with words?” “No, not usually. Very well, if you’re going to pry. I didn’t sleep well because I was scared you’d find fault with me today and boot me out. I don’t want to starve in a ditch, your grace.”

“Oh, I haven’t changed my mind. Stop your worrying, if that is indeed the truth you’re telling me.” “I had an early morning visit from Mrs. Needle.” He speared up a piece of thin-sliced ham, his fork pausing halfway to his mouth. “Mrs. Needle came to see you? How very odd. She scarcely ever leaves the North Tower anymore. What did she want?”

“Simply to meet me, Marissa’s cousin. She said some strange things, but she was kind to me.” “She’s a witch.”

“That’s what Mrs. Raleigh told me, but not a bad witch. She heals people.”

“She tries. She quacked my tiger, Juniper, last evening. I haven’t heard otherwise, so I will assume he’s still breathing and twitching. You’ve only eaten a slice of toast. Mrs. Dent will be upset if she doesn’t have you waddling by spring. Come, try the kidneys, they’re quite delicious.”

She looked at the kidneys on her plate and actually shuddered.

“You’re tall, Madame, and at the moment far too thin, except for your—” He was looking at her breasts, fully and completely at her breasts. At least he hadn’t said it aloud. That showed some restraint. He was outrageous, but of course she knew that already.

Very well, she thought, wondering just how far he would go. She said, “Except for what, your grace?”

“I was watching you spread butter on your toast. I couldn’t help but notice your fingers, Madame. They’re stubby. I’m sorry to have to be so frank about this, but you did ask. Yes, you’re cursed with stubby fingers. Could it be your French blood that’s done you in?”

She wanted very badly to jump out of her chair, grab it up, and throw it at him. “Stubby fingers? Why, that’s ridiculous. You know very well that you were looking at my—no, I won’t say that. It wouldn’t be proper. It would probably make you laugh and make me want to sink behind the wainscotting except there isn’t any wainscotting in here, so I must remain seated here, with you looking at me and laughing your head off.”

He didn’t laugh, but she knew he wanted to. She looked down at her long white fingers. “That was really well done, but naturally you know it. Now, do you think that Mrs. Needle could provide me with a potion to elongate these poor short fingers of mine?”

“I will look at them more closely and tell you. It isn’t too grave a physical flaw. I’m a tolerant man. All know that and appreciate it. You do as well, now.” She opened her mouth, but nothing came out. He leaned forward, his elbows on the table. “Do you enjoy crossing verbal swords, Madame?”

“Oh, yes,” she said. “As do you. You were probably born telling jests and poking fun. You’re quite good at it. In another year or so, though, I will be better than you, and then we shall see who just sits there, staring at his toes, without a thing to say.”

“All that? Ah, I must remember to call you Evangeline. It’s just that Madame sounds so very dignified, like an abbess, even.” “I’ve never been all that religious.” He gave a start, stared at her, then laughed. “I suggest you look up abbess in the dictionary. There’s a remarkably large one in my library.” Then he frowned. “Perhaps that particular meaning isn’t there. It’s rather a specialized meaning, one that isn’t exactly suited for innocent young minds like yours. Forget it. Now, I will endeavor to call you Evangeline. Were you ever called something shorter?”

“My mother called me Eve.”