Say Yes to the Duke (12 page)

Could the dowager be right, that telling the duke no was the way to win him?

“That sounds a lovely compromise to me,” she said. “But”—oh, dear God, how could she
say this politely?—“I don’t like strawberries, nor do I like sparkling wine, Your
Grace. I prefer bread and cheese, please. And lemonade.” She kept her expression politely
neutral.

Thank God her brothers had taught her how to keep a straight face while playing cards.

The other women’s mouths hung open, all but Mrs. Friday’s. She merely paused in her
stitching and watched Janice with a mildly amused expression in her eyes. Lord Yarrow
stared avidly at Janice, as if she were an odd scientific experiment. Lord Rowntree
watched her steadily, his expression unreadable. But she sensed that even he was unsettled
by her remark. His knuckles were tight around the stem of his wineglass.

It was a new experience for her to draw so much attention.

“There will be no strawberries or sparkling wine, then,” the duke said in a low tone,
sounding neither pleased nor unpleased.

“Thank you, Your Grace.” Janice took another sip of ratafia and looked at something
random—a very beautiful set of candlesticks, the tapers of which were lit and glowing.
She forced herself to think of mundane things, such as the fact that her new kid gloves
had already lost a button. She was terrible at buttons and lost them constantly. Isobel,
thank goodness, was excellent at finding them. Janice had never met anyone quite as
good, in fact.

After a moment, she took a peek at the duke and found him looking at her again, a
furrow in his brow. As a little experiment, she forced herself to think,
No, no,
no.

And his eyes flamed with something dark and hot.

Her heart hammered in her chest. Good God, she’d had no idea how easy it was to be
the object of fascination! If only she’d known how in London. Because clearly, everyone
in the room was riveted by her behavior at the moment.

Especially the duke.

Chapter Ten

And Janice’s success continued. When Halsey tried to escort her in to dinner, she
said no, thank you. She preferred to walk in at the rear. It had something to do with …

“With an Irish superstition my father told me once,” she lied. “It would be bad luck
for me to go first when I’m not married. Lord Rowntree, I’m quite content going into
dinner with
you.
” And without even waiting for the duke’s reply—or Lord Rowntree’s permission—she
took the earl’s arm. Lady Opal was on his other side.

Lady Rose wound up going in with the duke.

Mrs. Friday was on Lord Yarrow’s arm, along with Miss Branson, who made a terrible
face at Janice—her eyes bulging out and her nose flaring. But Mrs. Friday winked.
She
knew something was going on and wasn’t fazed, obviously.

Janice liked her even more.

The duke registered no expression when everyone arrived in the dining room, but there
was a new intensity about him that could be seriously intimidating if one was a middle
daughter with two failed Seasons. But when he pulled out Janice’s chair near the head
of the table—clearly a place of honor—she still refused it.

“Another Irish superstition?” His Grace drawled.

Janice detected an edge of pique in his tone and wondered if she might be thrown out
of the house for her impertinence. But she refused to dwell on the possibility. “No,
Your Grace,” she said in an easy manner. “No superstition.”

He looked at her, obviously waiting for a reason. But in a moment of inspiration she
decided that making excuses only incensed him further. It sounded so weak, in a way,
to make excuses, didn’t it? Best to leave her reasons to the duke’s imagination.

So she said nothing and simply took a seat farther down the table. Lord Rowntree rushed
to be seated on her left and Lord Yarrow across from her. Mrs. Friday sat at the end
of the table.

“No, Yarrow,” His Grace said tersely. “You’re up here, on my right. Lady Opal, you’re
to the right of him.” He went on to tell everyone else where they were to be seated—

Except for Janice.

She took that as a triumph. Either that or she’d already fallen into his bad books
tonight and lost all her chances of capturing his notice. It was a risk, of course.
But life
had
been dull in London for a good while.

Today, however, had been outrageous but exciting ever since that kiss she’d shared
with Luke Callahan.

Ah, that kiss.
And what about the way he’d looked at her as if she were up to tricks? And clever?
And desirable?

She held the memory close to her—like armor—while she continued on her campaign to
win the duke by saying no. In a matter of minutes, she said no to trying out His Grace’s
telescope after dinner. That was difficult, as she loved looking at the stars and
here in the country no doubt they’d be extra bright. She also refused his request
to tell the story of her parents’ romance, which everyone at the table seemed anxious
to hear.

“No, I’m afraid I can’t,” she said. “It’s private. Of course you understand.”

She looked at the duke.

“Of course,” he said. But he didn’t sound convinced.

She also denied His Grace’s assertion that Edinburgh ranked below Paris as a cultural
mecca. “No, I believe it’s leaps and bounds ahead of Paris,” she told him when he
asked if she agreed.

That assertion wasn’t too outrageous. Many people thought Edinburgh ranked high that
way. She wasn’t sure that it was leaps and bounds ahead of Paris, but she did love
the Scottish city the one time she’d been.

But the next question was more difficult. When His Grace asked her if she cared for
his favorite opera,
Il Barbiere di Siviglia
(which was secretly her favorite, too), she was forced to reply, “No, not in the
least.”

“Why?” asked Lady Opal. “Raise your hand if it’s your favorite.” Everyone around the
table raised their hands, except the duke. He rested his chin on his palm, his index
finger straight and nearly poking him in the eye, his elbow on the table in a most
disgraceful fashion, and stared at Janice as if she were from another world.

“See?” Miss Brandon said, looking around at the raised hands. “How could you not like
it?”

“Easily,” said Janice, and sawed off a piece of beef on her plate. She looked straight
at the duke and popped the meat in her mouth. Her stomach was in knots, and she had
no appetite at all. She forced herself to swallow the bite of food with wine. She
was already on her second glass of a standard selection and seriously wished she hadn’t
had to turn down the special vintage the duke had recommended earlier.

He leaned forward now. “Do you care for Shakespeare’s comedies?”

Oh, heavens.
This was going to be the most difficult one of all to deny. Janice laid down her
fork. “No, I don’t.” She put her hands in her lap so no one would see her fingers
tremble.

The duke’s eyes blazed with intensity. “His tragedies, then?”

“No,” Janice said. Her fingers were laced so tightly, they almost hurt.

There was utter silence in the room.

“Do you like anything about Shakespeare?” asked His Grace.

“No, Your Grace.” Janice felt her cheeks heat. This saying no—besides making her look
extremely foolish—was quite fatiguing. But it seemed to be having some sort of an
effect. The duke drained his entire glass of wine while not taking his eyes off her.

Lord Yarrow groaned into his hands. “Lady Janice,” he said, “I can’t believe I’ve
never heard of your quirky conversational style in London. How could anyone meet you
and walk away unaffected?”

She wasn’t sure if that was a compliment or not, so she simply smiled like the
Mona Lisa
and wished for an end to the dinner.

“You promised us earlier,” the duke reminded her when his two footmen brought out
cheese and fruit, “that you would sing for us tonight. And play the pianoforte.”

“I’m afraid I’ve changed my mind,” she said right away.

The duke was about to eat a piece of cheese, but he put it down.

Miss Branson tossed a grape onto her plate. “That’s enough of your obstinacy, Lady
Janice. Why are you here if you’re not going to be pleasing to the company?”

Janice tapped her linen serviette to her mouth. “I assure you, my declining to sing
and play will please you more than your being forced to listen to my performance.”

“Is that so?” said Miss Branson.

“Yes.” Janice truly believed it to be so. She was a lovely performer in private, yet
she might falter among strangers. She might cry. She might faint. She had no idea,
and she wouldn’t attempt to find out.

“Doesn’t your sister Marcia sing like a bird?” asked Lord Yarrow.

“Yes, she does,” Janice replied quietly.

It was good to be able to say yes occasionally—to anyone but the duke, of course.

“Most young ladies would never admit to being ill suited to playing the pianoforte
and singing,” said Lady Rose. “I commend you for your honesty, Lady Janice.”

She felt terribly grateful for Lady Rose’s understanding, although Janice was being
the opposite of honest.

Another huff of disgust came from Miss Branson.

“I know that you’ll understand that to change one’s mind isn’t a sign of weakness.”
Janice kept her gaze on the duke. “It signals one’s desire to follow one’s own heart
rather than abide by others’ whims, however highly ranked those persons may be.”

“Brava,” said Lord Rowntree.

The duke stared at her with that penetrating yet inscrutable expression and said nothing.

Janice felt so prickly and hot returning his gaze that for a ghastly ten seconds she
sincerely regretted listening to the dowager’s advice. The woman thought she was the
Queen, after all. What did she really know about what it would take to captivate her
grandson?

But what did Janice have to lose by experimenting?

Nothing. Nothing at all.

Ladies Opal and Rose were correct. It wasn’t as if Janice would go back to a successful
life when she left Halsey House to return to London.

A few moments later, the men rose to adjourn to the library for brandy.

“Oh, Lady Janice,” His Grace said.

“Yes?” His hair, she noticed, had been arranged in a more civilized manner.

“You mentioned returning to the stables tonight. We’ll send a footman out to get a
report on your driver and bring it back to you instead. “

“No, thank you,” she said. “I’d prefer to go myself.”

“But there’s no need for you to endure the elements again this evening.” His eyes
gleamed in the candlelight, but even now she had no idea what he was thinking.

“I like a bit of fresh air at night, truly.” She smiled politely. “I’ll walk with
the footman. Thank you, Your Grace.”

“
No,
Lady Janice. You’re staying.” His words weren’t clipped. Nor did he speak coldly.

Nevertheless, a chill permeated the room in an instant, so fast that Janice felt goose
bumps rise on her arms. She opened her mouth to protest, but nothing came out.

Luke Callahan’s warning came back to her.

Beware.

She knew that she wouldn’t defy His Grace this time. Seeing the puppies, Oscar, and
the groom she couldn’t forget—all of it would have to wait until the morning. She
wished she could be angry at being thwarted, but she was still a tad … afraid. And
everyone else in the room appeared as stunned into submission as she.

“Cat got your tongue, my lady?” A flicker of something dark in the duke’s eyes flamed
and then disappeared.

“No, Your Grace.” At least she could still say no.

He gave a short laugh, which broke the spell.

Perhaps he’s not wicked,
she thought as he told the other women good night.
Perhaps he’s simply being a duke.
She’d crossed him the entire evening, after all. It was expected that he’d be impatient
with her. And dukes were bossy. It was their right to be.

But when he left the room with his friends, she was glad to see him go, all the same.

Chapter Eleven

Lanterns in windows had never been a pleasant sight for Luke. They reminded him of
all the houses he’d passed by over the years. Walking as he did, always alone, he’d
often catch a glimpse of people eating and drinking around a table, a woman sewing,
a dog before a fire, children playing. Each glowing window was a reminder that he
didn’t belong.

So now here he was, with a lamp in the window of a large stable—the closest he’d ever
come to a home since the orphanage he’d been forced to leave at age eleven—and he
was waiting to welcome a guest.

Lady Janice.

It was an odd sensation to be a host. Perhaps it was more accurate to say that he
was the spider to her fly—which didn’t give him a good feeling, but it must be done.

It was better this way.

He allowed himself to linger over the memory of their meeting on the road—how the
obstinate young lady’s lips had collided with his while his gloved hand pressed hard
against the wool of her coat. The craving to caress the warm flesh of her hip had
driven him nearly mad. She’d been like a potion. For a moment there—just a moment—he’d
looked into her eyes and was astonished that he recognized her.

Knew
her.

But, of course, he didn’t.

She shouldn’t have come to Halsey House, he remembered thinking.

But she was here now.

And she might be the best mistake of his life.

He sat near the coal stove and worked on his latest whittling project, a figure of
a galloping horse, half the size of his hand. He had a whole collection of carved
animals under his bed in a box. He couldn’t stop whittling them, although he no longer
needed to. They’d helped him survive when he was younger. On the streets, he’d always
kept several in his bag, and when money was short he’d sell one for a meal.