Page 35 of The Duke’s Suspicion

Or did no one want to kiss her?

Finally, Lord Beresford guessed “toothache” in a reluctant, slightly embarrassed voice. “No, my lord,” she replied. Sir Thomas only shrugged and would not make an attempt.

“Beresford was right.” Tristan’s deep voice sent a quaver through her. “A pain is an ache. But I suspect the ‘spirit of life’ refers to the heart. The answer is ‘heartache.’”

Her gaze dropped to the carpet. Once more, she watched his glossy black boots make their way across a room to stop before her, the stride of a man who was sure he was right. “And the forfeit, as I understand it, is a kiss.” He held out his hand for hers, and for a moment, she was hopeful that he would follow Sir Thomas’s lead.

But with gentle pressure, he drew her to her feet. He meant to kiss her, not just her hand. No. Oh, no. The air seemed to rush from the room, taking with it all pretense of lighthearted entertainment. Though she’d agreed to play the game, she could not allow this. Even if—especially if—her blood was singing yes, yes as it coursed through her body and her nipples had tautened in anticipation, pressing almost painfully against the restraint of yet another of the duchess’ tight-fitting gowns.

He must have sensed her hesitation. “Is that not right, Miss Burke?”

Slowly, she lifted her chin and met his dark eyes. Despite the gallons of tea she had drunk, her mouth was dry and she had to wet her lips before she could speak. “No, Your Grace,” she insisted, praying she was as good at telling fibs as he. “Your answer was not correct.” Tugging her fingers free of his, she gathered up her skirts and hurried from the room.

* * * *

Of course, there could be no escaping the Duke of Raynham in his own house.

She had gone only a little way down the corridor when she heard his footsteps behind her. Still, she pressed on, not exactly sure where she was going but needing to get there all the same. And when she at last reached the door to the conservatory, she fumbled eagerly for the latch.

It was locked.

She leaned against the worn wood, into the warmth that seeped around its edges, longing for the tranquility, the comfort that lay just beyond her reach. Behind her, Tristan came onward at a steady pace, never hurrying to catch up nor calling out for her to wait. As if his success were never in doubt. Her heartbeat ratcheted higher with each step he took, until he stopped, just inches away.

Stretching one arm over her head, he felt along the top of the lintel and retrieved a stout, rusty key. Wordlessly, he inserted it into the lock. With her forehead still pressed against the door, she could feel the grating vibrations as he turned the key. As soon as the door sprang open, she stepped inside.

Moonlight flooded the conservatory, turning spiky leaves and curving vines into a fantastical landscape. Tipping her head back, she looked up, through the glass ceiling, into the expanse of a cloudless night sky.

“Maybe the storm is finally over,” Tristan said.

Over? Something very like regret welled within her. But why should that be? Only a moment before, she had been searching for a way to escape Hawesdale. To escape her attraction to him.

When she lowered her gaze enough to meet his, she saw that the moonlight had painted him too, highlighting the sharp angles of his face and turning his scarlet coat charcoal gray. Wordlessly, she stepped deeper into the room, to the ring of orange trees, and settled herself on one of the shadow-cloaked benches beneath them. He followed and sat beside her, at once too close and not close enough.

“Why did you come after me?”

“Why, to claim my prize, of course.” He leaned toward her and the safe distance between them evaporated. “Rules are rules, Miss Burke.”

She could feel the slight curve of a smile on his lips when they brushed hers. Of course he would be the sort of man who would insist upon following the rules. They’d been written all to his benefit. But she had never learned them.

The soft touch of his mouth on hers was strange. Not unwelcome, though she did not know how, or even whether, she ought to convey her enthusiasm to him. Despite the darkness, she closed her eyes, and for that moment of total blindness, immersed herself in the scents of damp soil, faded blossoms, and the spice of his cologne.

She was still fumbling for a proper beginning when he pulled away and the kiss was over. When she opened her eyes, it was to find him studying her, his eyes glittering, his dark brows knitted together. “It would seem I made a mistake,” he said.

The kiss. He means the kiss was a mistake. “The charade? No, you guessed right. The answer was…” She forced the word past lips that longed to be otherwise occupied. “Heartache. I lied because I—” Because I didn’t want you to kiss me. No, that was a lie too. She searched for some more believable excuse. “Because I—I—”

“Your engagement was not a love match, was it?” He spoke as if he had not heard a word she’d said. As if he were puzzling over some other riddle. Still dwelling, apparently, on their exchange of the day before.

She wished, suddenly, for the thunder of raindrops against the glass roof, something to drown out her tremulous whisper. “Why do you ask?”

“Because if your engagement had been a love match, I very much doubt I would have been the man to give you your first kiss.”

Only the fear of stumbling about in the dark kept her in her seat. With a hand on either side of her legs, she gripped the cool, polished iron of the bench. “No,” she agreed after a moment. “It was not a love match.”

“A marriage of convenience, then?”

“A marriage of mutual benefit,” she countered, her voice stronger now, as some of her usual boldness demanded to make itself known. “Henry was always supportive of my work and promised me liberty to continue it. As a married woman, I would have more freedom to travel, to go about my research.”

After a pause, he nodded his understanding. “Mutual benefit, you said…” He laid the slightest stress on the first word. No doubt he found it difficult to imagine what sort of profit could accrue to any man who would willingly saddle himself with someone like her.