The Duke Heist (The Wild Wynchesters #1) - Erica Ridley Page 0,44
two different rooms,” Tommy was saying, “and not only haven’t I found our portrait, I have glimpsed no art at all. Does Faircliffe despise creativity? He wouldn’t have tossed our painting into the fire, would he?”
Ah, yes. This was what Chloe was supposed to be thinking about: pillaging the duke’s estate, not offering him her body.
“Why would he burn it?” she mumbled.
“I don’t know. Because peers are madmen?” Tommy toyed with the stolen key ring, then shoved it back into the basket. “Maybe he didn’t read our letters because he anticipated our logical request and could not possibly respond, ‘Sorry, dropped your family heirloom into a fire. Saved the ashes in a nice tin, though.’”
“I really don’t…” Chloe frowned. “Tommy, are you all right?”
“I’m frustrated,” Tommy admitted. “I thought this would be easy—that the painting would be hanging on a wall. You’d distract him by whatever means necessary—clever touch with the kissing—and I’d filch the canvas. What if he’s hidden it? Searching nooks and crannies will take forever, even with a set of keys.”
Chloe’s cheeks burned. She had heard only part of the explanation. “You saw us kiss?”
“I’m so sorry.” Tommy patted her hand. “It must have been torture.”
A wondrous, delicious, toe-curling torture. Chloe’s skin heated at the memory. She would be replaying every moment to herself tonight, and the next night, and the next. Her skin still tingled where he had touched her.
“By the by, wherever did you find this stupendous overdress? And these baubles!” Tommy admired the pearl comb in Chloe’s hair. “I thought I was supposed to be the master of disguises, but you’ve outdone me by far.”
It wasn’t a disguise: these prized treasures from her secret collection were the closest to the real Chloe any family member had ever seen.
“Poor dear, you look miserable.” Tommy added another pin to her white-haired-grandmother wig. “It might take an age to exhaustively search each room for hiding places, but I’m working as fast as I can. As soon as we find Puck, life will return to normal.”
Huzzah?
Chloe clasped her hands in her lap. Before she could examine her complicated thoughts on the matter, the carriage pulled to a stop before the Ainsworths’ house.
She took a deep breath and shoved her basket to the floor.
When the door swung open, it was not their tiger Isaiah ready to hand her down from the carriage, but the Duke of Faircliffe.
A chill breeze whipped his dark hair asunder, but his blue gaze was targeted on her. Knowing, now. Possessive. He had learned things about her she had never divulged to anyone. How her heart skipped when he touched her. How her mouth was his for the taking.
“Allow me.” He offered his arm.
This time she knew how it would feel beneath her fingers. The warm contours of his muscles were no longer a mystery but a favorite memory. She had touched his shoulders, his face, his hair. Surely her fingertips could curve about his elbow.
Yet she hesitated. “Are you certain you should walk me to the front door at all?”
“My coach happened to arrive right before yours. I’m offering aid to a fellow guest, as any gentleman worth his salt ought.” He lowered his voice. “Don’t worry, no one will imagine the two of us arriving together on purpose.”
Ah. Chloe lifted her chin. Tommy was right. The sooner things went back to normal, the better.
When they were ushered into a parlor, “Great-Aunt Wynchester” hovered protectively at Chloe’s side while the fashionable attendees surrounded Faircliffe.
That was it, then. The last time they’d speak for the rest of the evening. She wouldn’t have bothered attending the party had she not needed the excuse to drop by the duke’s town house. Was it bad form to grab her sister and flee home the moment the dessert plates were cleared?
“I’m bored,” Tommy whispered. “It must be stultifying to live like this.”
“You’re bored because no one is speaking to us,” Chloe whispered back.
Good breeding required a formal introduction before gentlemen could speak to a young lady, but she doubted any such introductions were forthcoming. Once any reputable gentleman heard “Wynchester,” he’d have the only detail about her he wished to know.
A familiar figure came their way.
“You did come.” Philippa’s smile looked as though she meant it. “I wasn’t certain you would.”
“How could I stay away from all this?” Chloe gestured toward Tommy. “My great-aunt Wynchester adores a dinner party. What were you saying about how lovely Philippa looks tonight, Aunt?”
A wordless gurgling sound came from Tommy’s throat, followed by