Page 37 of The Duke’s Suspicion

More than a mere forfeit, despite what she’d said. And he was solely to blame. He’d gone after her. He’d asked uncomfortable questions to which he had no right to expect answers. Then he’d kissed her. Really kissed her. Given in to a temptation that had been plaguing him since the storm began.

Now that the storm had ended, however, would he be free of the temptation at last?

Not if the spark of lightning at their touch, the thunder of blood in his veins, was any indication.

Caroline looked up from her conversation with Beresford and smiled gently at him as he crossed the threshold, her expression mild as always. Every inch the duchess she expected to be.

A part of him had been hoping to see a flicker of disappointment at his return, he realized. Or jealousy. Anything that might reveal the depths beneath that placid surface. He was not quite fool enough to believe her as shallow and indifferent as she put on. Of course, if that were his goal, he might’ve guessed her charade and won the forfeit. Even a brief kiss surely would have told him more than her face seemed inclined to reveal.

“Back so soon?” Sir Thomas teased. “Couldn’t you find her?”

“No.” More lies. He began to regret that he’d had occasion to grow expert at telling them. “Miss Burke would seem to have asserted her triumph by retiring for the night.” Skeptical expressions made their way around the company, but no one challenged his story or disputed Erica’s victory at charades. “Another game, perhaps?” he suggested halfheartedly.

“Not for me.” Guin shook her head and rose, a gentle signal to all that the evening had come to an end.

Tristan stood at the door and bowed them out. “It would appear that the rain has moved on. In a day or two, when the roads have recovered somewhat, I suppose you’ll all be on your way.” It was badly done, he knew. Almost a dismissal. But he could not muster an ounce of regret to accompany it.

For their part, his guests exclaimed and began to chatter in what sounded suspiciously like relief. After a fortnight, the odd assortment of ladies and gentlemen had grown tired of one another’s company. Except, perhaps, for Lady Lydgate and Lord Beresford, who exchanged a look as the former left the room on the arm of her oblivious—or perhaps apathetic—husband.

Whitby alone sent him a disapproving glance. He had risen out of deference to the ladies but made no move to depart. Something to report, perhaps. Or to protest.

Save his old friend, Guin and Caroline were the last to leave, his stepmother fulfilling her role of chaperone to the end.

“Miss Pilkington.” He took her hand and bowed over it, then straightened without releasing her hand.

She made no attempt to pull away, though her eyes widened. She looked up at him expectantly, if not eagerly. “Yes, Duke?”

Percy’s perfect bride. A word or two to her tonight, a few more to her father in the morning, and she could be his. Can you think of any reason why I shouldn’t? he’d asked Whitby. A purely rhetorical question, of course.

But earlier this evening, the answer had become yes.

“Good night, Miss Pilkington,” he said.

Was that relief in her eyes as she bid him good night in return?

When she and Guin had gone, Whitby sank into his chair, a frown etched onto his brow. “Something stronger than tea, Captain?” Tristan offered as he approached the table.

Whitby shook his head almost absently. “Why did you lie?” he asked after a moment.

“Did I?” Tristan took the chair opposite.

“I don’t believe for a moment that Miss Burke escaped your pursuit.”

Tristan traced the edge of an empty cup with one finger, choosing his words with care. “I found her in the conservatory.”

“And you—” Apparently thinking better of it, Whitby bit off the accusation. “She’s Irish, Tris. Intimate with men involved in a plot against the British government. A—”

“I do not believe she is a spy,” Tristan interjected smoothly before Whitby could lay the charge at Erica’s door.

Astonishment, disappointment, mistrust. Emotions slid across Whitby’s face and were gone, leaving behind a smooth mask of impassivity. The look of a man who knew how to hide his feelings, for his own safety and that of others. “You like her.”

“I do. She is spirited, engaging—”

“Beautiful.”

That too, of course, though hers was not the polished, sophisticated style of beauty to which the word was usually applied. The fire that burned deep within her sent its glowing embers into every element of her being. Her speech. Her hair. Her kiss.

Unlike Whitby, he did not trouble to keep his thoughts from his face. Reading them, the captain said, “Be careful, my friend. You cannot afford to make that mistake—or any mistake—right now. Unless you relish the thought of home duty, you must treat every person under this roof with suspicion.”