The Duke Heist (The Wild Wynchesters #1) - Erica Ridley Page 0,16

the notebook back into her basket just as the Duke of Faircliffe strode into the parlor.

His dark brown hair tumbled over his forehead, drawing one’s gaze directly to the icy intensity in his blue eyes. His wide, full mouth was pressed into a tight line, as though displeased to find that Chloe had breached the butler-guarded perimeter and was now inside his ducal parlor. She fought the urge to pirouette, just because it would rankle him.

His jaw was tight and clean-shaven—touchably smooth despite the hard angles. The folds of his cravat were sharp enough to lacerate, spilling from his throat in a profusion of white linen blades.

This was how he looked in Parliament. Regal and ruthless, armed for battle. He was not afraid there, and he was not afraid of her. His mistake. Just because her spikes were not visible did not make her any less dangerous. Not all ammunition was meant to wound. Her weapons were her wits—and a feline coconspirator.

This fun was only beginning.

“It’s Miss Wynchester, Your Grace,” Chloe said helpfully. She dipped a curtsey, then lifted the lid of her basket in case the duke needed help remembering.

Up popped two pointy ears, one gold and one black, then bright inquisitive eyes, then a tiny pink nose with soft white whiskers protruding from either side.

Faircliffe’s eyes lit up and he stepped forward before remembering himself and clearing his throat disapprovingly. “Is that the calico cat-demon that caused so much chaos at the Yorks’ residence?”

Chloe rubbed between Tiglet’s furry ears. “The very one.”

“Why,” Faircliffe asked carefully, “would you bring him?”

“In case you didn’t recognize me,” she explained. “Most people remember Tiglet.”

“I imagine they do.” He sent a pointed look toward the open basket. “I shall thank you to leave the lid in place.”

And I shall thank you for leading me to my painting.

She closed the lid.

Taking Tiglet along had been a calculated risk. She needed Faircliffe to remember both her and their pact, yes, but she also needed to appear inept when it came to mixing with high society. She was a damsel in distress, here to collect on an IOU. Chloe was going to enjoy the game.

“How may I help you?” Faircliffe did not look as though he wished to be of any service at all. “Remember: no money, no objects. And I shan’t pretend to court you.”

Ah, so that was the third condition. Luckily for him, Chloe didn’t want that, either. She smiled up at him and tried to look as benign as possible.

“I need your help.” This was true. Chloe let him see the sincerity in her eyes.

He didn’t uncross his arms. “Help with what?”

“Fitting into society.” That was believable enough.

He looked appalled.

“You needn’t dance with me or feign particular interest,” she assured him. “I am a romantic”—she was not—“and will only marry someone who wishes to marry me.”

“What does any of that have to do with me?” he sputtered.

She lowered her gaze as if shy. “I wouldn’t imagine someone as fashionable as yourself to know much about wallflowers, but it is impossible to marry well—or at all—from the fringes.”

“I was right,” the duke said in disgust. “You wish to ensnare some other sap in your social-climbing web.”

But he didn’t say no.

Got you.

“Someone with a fine house,” she continued. “And at least four thousand a year.”

“Those are the qualities with which a wallflower might ‘fall in love’?” Faircliffe valiantly refrained from rolling his ducal eyes.

Chloe couldn’t be more pleased. His indignation at her presumptuous aspirations meant he didn’t question her motives. How could he? They were not dissimilar from his own.

“According to the papers, the Faircliffe dukes host a grand gala at the end of every season,” she continued.

He closed his eyes as if begging her not to complete her request.

“I want an invitation,” she finished. “And to be introduced to a few prospects beforehand.”

He said nothing for a long moment, allowing his gaze to rake over her with humiliating thoroughness.

Half boots, as plain and ordinary as the rest of her outfit. Gown the color of old ash and just as uninviting. Bodice modest and covered but suddenly tight, as though the air she sucked into her lungs no longer quite fit. Pulse fluttering visibly at the base of her throat.

Lips dry, so she moistened them with her tongue, only to be caught in the act.

Faircliffe’s eyes were no longer icy but glittered sharply, as though a dormant fire had been stoked deep within. Her tongue quickly retreated from view. Chloe’s halfhearted bun with its strands