A Duchess a Day (Awakened by a Kiss #1) - Charis Michaels Page 0,22
thing in his chest sank lower, digging into his side. He reached for his metaphorical noose and tugged.
She’d worn indigo, a dark purple meant to be regal and majestic, something befitting a duchess, but it put Declan in mind of a mythical creature. A fairy, perhaps. Or a good witch. It was the color of the innermost petal of a wild iris. Her hair was loosely swept up and her posture was upright but languid. She did not appear violated or traumatized; she appeared . . . serene. She waited pleasantly in the street, allowing her family to precede her.
Declan forced himself not to look. He busied himself loading the women into a carriage, supporting elbows and holding parasols. He restrained the wolfhounds. Loading women into a carriage was like shoving flapping birds into a small box.
Suddenly there she was. She turned and raised her pale-green gaze to his. Their eyes locked.
If he thought she would ignore him or scowl, he was wrong. If he thought he would see outrage or fear, he was also wrong.
Lady Helena fastened him with a look so familiar, so knowing and expectant, Declan glanced around to see if anyone else had seen.
But then the moment passed, and she affected a sort of exaggerated whirl of ruffled pelisse, and slinging reticule, and bobbing hat feather. When she was on the step, she managed to press a leather satchel into Declan’s hands.
He shot her a questioning look. She cocked one eyebrow, another expression of emphasized familiarity. If no one noticed the first time, certainly they would now. He was given little choice but to stow the satchel on his shoulder and hand her up into the carriage.
A fellow groom offered to unburden him of the satchel, but Declan grunted some excuse. He slipped behind the carriage, heart in his throat, and opened the brass buckles.
It would contain a letter, he thought, condemning him for assault. It would be a warrant for his arrest. It would be some equestrian item from the stable that had tangled in her nightdress or stuck to her boot.
Instead, he found five pieces of parchment, an inkpot, and a quill. And a note.
Shaw,
Here are the items we discussed for taking inventory of the gifts. The weather has held, so the party will commence outside in Lady Canning’s garden. When we arrive, please report to the gift table and stand ready.
Many thanks,
Lady Helena Lark
Chapter Seven
An hour later, Helena wound her way through Lady Canning’s crowded garden, repeating the names of three potential duchesses in her head.
Miss Tasmin Lansing . . .
Lady Moira Ashington . . .
Miss Lisbette Twining . . .
She waved to her mother’s maliciously chatty friend now drifting to a footman with a tray. The woman looked almost sated in the aftermath of whispering these incredibly specific and useful details. Of course she’d gushed a host of extraneous bits, but Helena had worked to remember only what she could use. She repeated the notes in her head as she checked the gift table. Shaw lurked, a golden-liveried pillar of disgust, towering above Lady Canning’s rhododendrons and a lichen-covered statue of a satyr.
She’d set the odds of his cooperation at less than half. And by cooperation, she meant making the list and then also relinquishing it to her when it was finished. She knew well the tactic of playing along until the crucial moment and then refusing to follow through. It was precisely her current plan with Lusk.
But first things first: Shaw had turned up. He alternately frowned and stared, his expression conveying barely concealed resentment. But he had come.
It was wrong, she knew, to feel an all-over sort of tingled rush at the sight of him. The sensations surely showed crimson or perhaps iridescent (was this possible?) on her face. She would later describe the feeling as “eruptive”—for all the good it would do her.
What would Gran say about the fizzing, sparking regard for a man who seemed only capable, at least at the moment, of glowering?
Miss Tasmin Lansing, Helena repeated, trying not to forget. Lady Moira Ashington, Miss Lisbette Twining . . .
She wondered if Shaw felt iridescent or tingling. He did not look like someone who remembered their time in the stable fondly . . . nor did he look like someone who experienced eruptive thinking.
But he’d come. She’d asked him for help, and he’d come.
Bracing herself for any myriad reactions, Helena repeated the names in her head and strode to the gift table.