The Duke Heist (The Wild Wynchesters #1) - Erica Ridley Page 0,34
was still catching his breath.
The poor man must have sprinted from wherever he’d been occupied. Chloe and her “aunt” had been left alone less than five minutes.
She wanted to touch her fingertips to his lapels, to feel the rise and fall of his strong chest as he caught his breath. Perhaps then she could find her own. And her wits, which seemed to have scattered.
His lips curved in a smile so faint, it was easily missed, yet she was certain it had been meant for her alone.
Chloe was standing still, yet her heart thudded against her chest, pressing her bodice toward him with every heartbeat. He stood laughably far from her, but neither of them dared close the distance. Anything could happen if they were close enough to touch.
“Mrs. Wynchester, Miss Wynchester.” He arched a brow. “How may I be of service?”
Chloe opened her mouth.
“You likely cannot,” Tommy barked, then shook a scolding finger at Chloe. “My niece was raised by wolves.”
“I will keep that in mind and do my best,” Faircliffe said wryly. “Once I have any idea what we’re talking about.”
“Social ruin for this chit.” Tommy waved a hand. “If she shows her face at the Apeworth parade.”
“Ainsworth party, Aunt,” Chloe corrected gently. “Please let me tell it.” She looked up at Faircliffe and affected an expression of deep distress. “I’ve been invited to a society supper tonight, followed by dancing. It’s a wonderful opportunity to meet my future husband…if I don’t embarrass myself with all those spoons and forks and who sits where.”
“I won’t take more than half an hour of your time,” she said in a rush, “if you’re able to part with that much. It’s just…Wynchesters have never been given proper instruction in anything”—Bean had filled the house with tutors and drilled them on everything—“and if I make a poor showing tonight, there might be no further invitations until your end-of-season gala.”
“You intend your comportment to be indistinguishable from that of a highborn lady in…half an hour?” Faircliffe glanced at the clock atop the mantel, then frowned at her. “The dinner won’t start for hours.”
“Waste of everyone’s time,” Tommy blustered with an exasperated shake of her head. “You’re a lost cause, girl.”
The duke let out a defeated sigh. “One hour. That’s all I can give you.”
“Thank you,” Chloe gushed, doing her best to keep the laughter out of her voice. “Tonight I might meet my future intended.”
A tendon pulsed in Faircliffe’s neck. He turned to his butler, who had been hovering behind him. “Hastings, would you have the formal dining room set for a party of, say, twelve?”
“At once, Your Grace.” But the butler slid Chloe an appraising look.
She smiled back at him blandly.
He disappeared to do his master’s bidding.
“I suppose we should begin by pretending I’m your escort.” The duke raised his elbow toward Chloe, then frowned over her shoulder. “Does your aunt require assistance?”
“I don’t want your arm,” Tommy quavered. “I’m old, not incapable. Now, if you’ve got a pair of handsome footmen to spare…”
“Ignore her,” Chloe whispered. “She blusters to salve her pride.”
“Pride? I don’t know what I did with mine,” he muttered. But he left his elbow proffered for her to take.
Her breath was unsteady as she slid her fingers around his upper arm. She was touching him just as she’d imagined doing. A shiver spread over her flesh, weakening her knees. She held tighter. Memorized the feel of him beneath each fingertip.
His arm was warm through the layers of shirt and jacket, and well-defined due to the musculature he’d earned doing…what? Did he swim or practice a sport like boxing?
Chloe tried not to imagine Faircliffe stripped to his shirtsleeves, dodging blows and throwing sweaty punches, before emerging from the ring triumphant and proud. Her pulse jumped at the idea of watching his muscles ripple, of pressing the soft tip of her tongue to his hard chest to taste the salt of his skin.
“Are we there yet?” Tommy barked.
Faircliffe glanced over his shoulder. “I’m taking the shortest path.”
Chloe held on tight.
A tour of his town house would have saved them a bit of reconnaissance, but she and Tommy had both agreed it was best for the duke to believe them uninterested in the details of his residence. Besides, none of these terraced homes was particularly large.
Not that there appeared to be any reason to worry. Faircliffe had accepted Great-Aunt Wynchester’s frightful lack of manners without question and believed that a woman of Chloe’s age could grow