Ten Things I Hate About the Duke - Loretta Chase Page 0,53

take forever.”

She felt the pause, as though the air between them—what little air there was—vibrated.

“Help you,” he said.

“Yes. Now. You said it was worse where I couldn’t see, and I can hardly see a blasted thing as it is, and we need to get out of here before anybody else comes and before my aunt starts looking for me.”

After all, maybe the hiding-behind-the-curtain trick wasn’t Ashmont’s cleverest idea.

People came and went, going up and down the stairs from the lobby below.

Keeping an ear tuned to doings nearby, he worked briskly. He tugged her dress straight and shoved the sleeve puff back into position as best he could from the outside. He smoothed the pelerine over her shoulders and retied it. He wrestled the belt back into position. She’d got her hat straight, but the ribbons didn’t look right. He smoothed and fluffed them.

He put her to rights while trying, in distractingly close quarters, to stay alert to their surroundings. All the while he was disturbingly aware of her face, upturned toward his, and the brightness of her gaze. Or was that only a trick of the uncertain light?

He was all too conscious as well of his hands—on her dress, on her hat, tucking her hair out of the way.

He didn’t want to do this.

It was intolerable.

And there she was, simply standing still, so very still, looking up at him while he played lady’s maid.

He remembered her face in the starlight, gazing up at him so intently, while he told stories about the stars.

Don’t meet her gaze. Concentrate on what you’re doing. Points. Remember the points. Five thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine to go.

He made himself work quickly, quickly, all business, merely putting her into order, like—like nothing he ever did. He never tidied his dressing table or desk, let alone his clothes. He never put himself to rights. Somebody else always did that.

Yet here he was, fussing over ribbons and sleeve puffs.

“There, that’ll have to do,” he muttered.

She didn’t move, only stared at him.

“What?” he said.

“I must give you a point.” Her voice was so low, he barely made out what she said, and wasn’t sure he’d heard aright. “It chokes me to say so, duke, but that was very well done, indeed.”

“What, putting your clothes in order?”

“That, yes—but no. I mean the fight.”

“The fight.” He was trying to keep his mind on her clothing and nothing else. It didn’t look right, and he didn’t know what to do.

“Yes. You made no allowance for my sex or size or ignorance. You behaved as a ruffian would do. I had to fight for my life.”

The glorious fight. Only minutes earlier, yet it seemed like a wondrous dream from long ago.

“I was not going to kill you,” he said.

“I know, but you made me forget that. You made me work hard, and think quickly—and—and it was well done of you—and reason and logic demand I acknowledge this. I must give you a point.”

She stood so close, he could feel her breath on his face.

His heart surged to racing speed. “Ah. Good.”

Then, because old habits die hard—or not at all—his mouth went on speaking when it should have stopped and he said, “Does that mean I get a kiss?”

She went still again. “I said point, not kiss. Kisses do not come into it.”

Stop! Stop! Go back! That was his brain. Points. Remember the points. Lord deGriffith. Lady Charles. Too much at stake. Go back!

But they stood inches apart in a small, warm space growing warmer by the second and he was breathing her in, and instinct and bad habits beat intellect all hollow. He was a man, and competitive; and she was a woman, and resistant; and, in short, he wasn’t really thinking at all, but reacting, determined to win.

And so, he pointed to his cheek. “A peck on the cheek, to encourage me to do more good works.”

“No.”

“The merest nothing,” he said. “Your lips touch my face. That’s all. A token. Encouragement.”

“Since when do you need encouragement?”

“Since I did something right for a change without realizing,” he said. “Have you never tried to train a dog? A horse? Didn’t Keeffe teach you his reward and encouragement method?”

“As though you’re trainable,” she said. “As though I would waste my time attempting it.”

“As though you can’t manage a mere male,” he said.

An eternity of a pause followed. Through it he heard the faint hum of the women’s voices in the room beyond. Below them, in the lobby at the bottom of the stairs, footsteps