The Duke Heist (The Wild Wynchesters #1) - Erica Ridley Page 0,48

her old life—and the blessed relief of finding sanctuary at last.

She could not stand in the way.

16

Lawrence stood off to the side with his butler as men from Christie’s auction house carried the last of the expensive carpets out of the door. The spring weather had brought an overabundance of rain. Several of his tenants needed new roofs more than Lawrence needed his grandfather’s carpets.

Once the men had gone, Hastings handed Lawrence his hat. “Off to woo a bride, Your Grace?”

Hastings knew perfectly well Lawrence was headed to Miss York’s town house in hopes of catching the reading circle. The butler’s wording seemed to imply there was some doubt about who the bride would be.

“I’m off to see Miss York,” Lawrence said firmly.

His butler politely refrained from pointing out that if seeing Miss York was Lawrence’s only aim, a private call without her reading circle present might be more romantic.

Very well, the company Lawrence yearned for was Miss Wynchester’s.

After their practice supper, all he could think of was their kiss. After their brief moments together in the country-dance, all he wanted was her back in his arms.

He could not have her. Not her kisses, not her humor, not their lively conversations. But he could glimpse her, secretly. Be closer in proximity, even if her body was not his to touch. He had the memory.

It would have to be enough.

After crossing the square, he strode down the Yorks’ now-familiar corridor toward the sound of voices. When he entered the parlor, more than a dozen faces smiled up at him in surprise. Lawrence did not slow until he reached Miss Philippa York and could make the appropriate pleasantries.

Then, and only then, did he allow himself to dart a brief glance toward Miss Wynchester.

His chest clenched as if his heart had stalled, then picked back up at twice the tempo. His blood rushed far too fast. Looking at her made his mouth water, his fingers twitch to reach for her even though he knew he could not.

In her beige-on-beige lap, she wrung her soft hands. No one else might have noticed, but Lawrence’s heightened senses were solely attuned to her. He had not missed the widening of her eyes at his entrance, the hitch in her breath as her gaze met his.

She clearly hadn’t anticipated his presence here today. Nor would he admit to her that she was the reason he’d come.

He had missed her, damn it all. A few fleeting moments of interchanging partners in a country-dance was not enough.

Now that he’d witnessed how others in his social sphere treated Miss Wynchester—or, rather, now that he’d seen her and her aunt shamefully overlooked for the entirety of an evening—he worried the same might be true everywhere.

The thought had him ready to grab his shield and his sword and ride into battle.

Or into a reading circle.

He knew what it was like to want the acceptance of one’s peers. Except Lawrence had a title to fall back on—one that outranked almost everyone else’s. Miss Wynchester was not bon ton. She did not have “Lady Chloe” to use as both armor and weapon. She had no power, parents, or cachet.

But she did have Lawrence.

A fierce protectiveness rushed through him. She was doing all right, wasn’t she?

The other ladies weren’t talking to her, but neither were they not speaking to her. They were discussing goings-on at Almack’s or had been, until he barreled into the room.

Miss York smoothed out a lace hem. “Will you join us for tea?”

“Tea sounds lovely,” he forced himself to say.

It did not sound lovely. It sounded like torture. Except for the fact that tea would forever remind him of the kisses he’d shared with Miss Wynchester. No amount of sugar would ever taste as sweet.

He darted another secret glance at her. Was she thinking the same thing? Did she relive those moments again and again, as he did, or had she already forgotten their shared embrace?

Now was definitely not the moment to ask.

He offered his arm to Miss York and accompanied her into the adjoining room. Because this was a reading circle, rather than a formal dinner party, her guests were welcome to take any seat they pleased. His place, presumably, was at Miss York’s side. But Miss Wynchester’s place…

Quickly he scouted the table for the best seat. A comfortable chair, close enough to him to allow the exchange of words, but not so close as to raise suspicion, and positioned in such a way as to avoid the many elaborate