The Duke Effect (The Rogue Files #7) - Sophie Jordan Page 0,69
continued on his way.
Nora pulled her arm from his grasp. Her fingers went where he had held her, rubbing the exposed skin as though she wished to rid herself of his lingering touch.
That stung. Did his mere touch repulse her now?
Her gaze followed the retreating servant. “You need not hover about me so much,” she said tightly. “Servants gossip. People talk.”
He snorted. “I do not typically concern myself with what the servants think.” Right now, he felt particular irritation for Birchwood’s household staff.
“You should care,” she snapped. “The servants hold a direct line to their masters. What the staff witnesses, what they know, what they think, does not stay private. Ultimately, it holds great weight.”
He stared at her intently, assessing. She appeared truly concerned, her gaze fixed seriously on him.
“You don’t strike me as someone who cares what others think,” he murmured.
“I don’t.” She paused to inhale. “But you should.”
“Me? Why should I care?”
She gave a brief laugh and took a careful step away from him as though needing the distance. “You are going to be the next Duke of Birchwood. Appearances matter for you. That is your fate.”
He wanted to deny that, but he could not. She was correct.
He would become a duke, and with that he would have all the responsibilities thereof, including the very stated expectation that he would take his cousin’s betrothed to wife.
In that moment, he felt trapped, cornered. Was that the effect of dukedom? To make him feel like a caged animal?
Nora backed up several more steps. “We should keep our distance from each other for the remainder of my stay here.”
He opened his mouth, wanting to deny that, to argue with that, but it made perfect sense. Of course. He should give her a wide berth. Given what had happened last night he should not even look at her, much less speak to her—and he should certainly never touch her, never be seen alone with her. That all seemed the most sensible course of action. It was not an unreasonable request.
He nodded to her as she retreated. “Very well.”
She held his gaze for one lingering moment and then turned away.
He watched her go until she was out of sight.
“Oh, that’s lovely,” the duchess proclaimed the following morning, clapping her hands together as she admired Nora in her gown.
“You really did not have to do this.” Nora grasped the luxurious fabric of her skirts.
“After how kind and attentive you’ve been to me? A new dress is the least I can do for you, darling.”
Bea, crouched at Nora’s feet, pinned the hem where it needed to be shortened. She nodded. “You look like a princess.”
“Indeed,” the duchess seconded, her eyes bright and lively. “You can wear this tonight. I am sure dear Vernon will be quite besotted at the sight of you. You look a vision.”
Nora had lost count of how many mentions of Vernon had occurred this morning. Clearly, the duchess was matchmaking. Nora fixed a placid smile on her lips, her fingers continuing to work in the luxurious folds of her skirts.
“We need a ball gown for you, too, as I suspect there will be a magnificent ball in our future very soon.”
The duchess waited, looking at Nora as though for great effect, to build anticipation. The lady glanced left and right, clearly fearing being overheard. Nora was not certain who she thought might eavesdrop as it was only Nora and Bea in the room.
The duchess dropped her voice to a whisper. “You could wear it to Constantine’s betrothal ball.”
Nora’s heart yanked hard and locked, clenching to a full stop in her chest.
“Betrothal ball?” she echoed, her voice thin. “Is that set to take place then?”
Bea stilled where she crouched at Nora’s feet as well. Her gaze lifted to fix on Nora’s face, her eyes wide with what could only be characterized as keen interest.
If Nora had any doubt that Bea knew there was something between Nora and Constantine, something beyond simple friendliness, it was put to rest.
Bea knew. The woman was far too intuitive.
Bea perhaps knew what even she could scarcely admit to herself—that Nora held a tendre for Constantine.
She could not look at him without feeling butterflies in her stomach. Without her heart squeezing. Without her pulse racing and her mouth watering. Each time she closed her eyes she saw that beautiful body of his spread out before her on a bed and she physically ached.
Impossible. She could not have him. She gave herself a swift mental shake and schooled her