The Duke Heist (The Wild Wynchesters #1) - Erica Ridley Page 0,24

Cold enough to send shivers of gooseflesh along her skin and sometimes hot enough to do the same.

She could see nothing of him but his eyes and still feel dwarfed in his presence. The sensation should discomfort her, anger her. She was not used to feeling trapped by nothing stronger than a heated gaze. Instead, it was strangely thrilling. Her muscles thrummed with anticipation for the moment the shadows would fall away and his eyes would be visible to hers.

He cut a fine figure beneath the brilliant sun. A perfectly tailored frock coat hugged his wide shoulders. A hint of emerald-green waistcoat shimmered beneath the elegant cutaway. Fawn breeches molded to the muscles of his legs. His coal-black boots reflected the light, no doubt champagne-shined for impact.

If he intended to make an impression, he had achieved his aim. The entranceway fairly vibrated from the effort to contain so many racing pulses at once.

“Your Grace,” Mrs. York cooed. “How splendid for you to join us. And with a blanket for the children! What did you have embroidered on yours?”

“Embroidered?” he echoed blankly.

Oh dear, had Chloe failed to mention the finer details? Perhaps he shouldn’t have swept her out of the house like so much rubbish. She hid a smile behind her fist and feigned a dainty cough.

“When we donate to Blankets for Babes, we embroider the softest cotton with our favorite Bible verses or inspiring axioms, to create cheer and hope in the lives of orphans,” Mrs. York continued earnestly. “The little dears have nothing else to look forward to, you know.”

Without a word, Faircliffe handed Mrs. York a folded square of beautiful material that would be welcome anywhere, lack of embroidered platitudes notwithstanding.

He sent his flat gaze over Mrs. York’s shoulder, past her daughter and her friends, right to Chloe. There were his eyes, cerulean and sharp.

Her amusement faltered. She knew the duke had sent her a meaningful look because he hadn’t known to embroider his blanket, but others would think he had singled her out because she was a foundling who had grown up in an orphanage, just like the pitiable “babes” they’d embroidered Bible verses for.

Chloe lifted her nose high. She was not ashamed of who and what she was or where she had come from.

Mrs. York poked at Faircliffe’s offering. “Heavens, this won’t match the others at all. We’ve spent the past week embroidering—”

“Mother, it’s a blanket,” Philippa pointed out dryly. “And babies can’t read.”

Faircliffe’s eyes met Chloe’s again. From their fire it was clear he was not thinking about charity. He did not seem to be thinking about blankets at all. He was staring at Chloe as if he wished to peel her plainness away like petals on a dahlia to expose whatever secrets hid inside.

She shivered and forced herself to look away.

Realizing her daughter did not command the duke’s full attention, Mrs. York turned to see who had presumed to distract him.

She paled when her gaze landed on Chloe.

Chloe fought the urge to wiggle her fingers.

Mrs. York waded through the river of pink-cheeked ladies leaping to greet the duke and grabbed Chloe by the arm.

“You must go at once,” she hissed, “and never return.”

“I don’t want him,” Chloe assured her just as quietly, “if that’s your concern.”

Mrs. York was unswayed. “My concern is the presence of a Wynchester in what, until this day, has been a respectable household.”

Chloe refrained from mentioning that she’d been present before.

When she’d initially infiltrated the reading circle using her Jane Brown identity, she expected to amuse her siblings with tales of idle gossip. Instead, she was fascinated by the selection of books and the insightful commentary. The weekly meetings became a favored part of her routine.

Mrs. York’s face flushed and she lowered her voice to a hiss. “I will not allow the stain of your presence to jeopardize Philippa receiving the marriage offer she very much deserves. If you’re not gone within the next—”

“Good afternoon, Miss Wynchester.” Faircliffe’s deep voice resonated throughout the hall. “Shall I presume Tiglet is in that basket?”

Chloe dipped a princess-perfect curtsey. “Good afternoon, Your Grace. And indeed he is.”

She lifted the lid. Up popped soft pointed ears and long white whiskers as the kitten peeked out.

“Keep the little rascal inside this time.” A ghost of a smile curved Faircliffe’s lips before he turned to greet the next guest.

Mrs. York’s jaw fell open. “You… He…”

Chloe’s spinning head felt much the same way.

The Duke of Faircliffe had acknowledged her publicly. He had not cut her, ignored her,