Who Wants to Marry a Duke - Sabrina Jeffries Page 0,15

him. For him to wish to marry her while also supporting her work as a chemist. Neither of those was likely to happen.

She sighed. Although she’d guessed he was being forced into offering for her, her refusal of his proposal had clearly also stung his pride and fired his temper. It made no sense. She simply did not understand men and their . . . odd reactions.

That was why she preferred chemicals to people. Chemicals behaved in predictable ways. One merely had to figure out what those ways were. Chemicals didn’t up and change their properties one day out of the blue, and they certainly didn’t lose their tempers for no good reason.

“There they are!” Beatrice said as Greycourt and Thornstock entered the ballroom. “I began to wonder if they’d left entirely.”

If only Olivia could be so lucky.

As the two half brothers approached, she studied Thornstock, looking for signs that he’d changed since they’d first met. Unfortunately, he hadn’t. His form was still as pleasingly fit as it had been in his youth, and his dark chestnut hair not only had no gray, but its short-cropped Titus style suited him better than his wild, untamed look from before. If she were a typical female, the very sight of him approaching with that icy look in his eyes would make her swoon.

But she was not, and it did not. By the time Thornstock and Greycourt had reached them, she had braced herself for an argument. She half expected to hear that Thornstock had talked his brother out of engaging her, and that her trip to Carymont was no more. So help her, if he had done so—

“Miss Norley,” Thornstock said, “would you do me the honor of standing up with me for this set?”

He really meant to go through with their dance? Very well, she’d do her best not to let the arrogant, nosy fellow cow her.

She stared him down. “Certainly, Your Grace.”

He surprised her by smiling. It threw her off guard, since she’d intended to be as cool to him as he’d been angry at her.

Then he offered her his arm, and a new sort of emotion hit her. Fear. She had exaggerated how far her dancing master had gone in improving her ability to dance, and the thought of having Thornstock see her bumbling about terrified her.

“Follow his lead, and you’ll be fine,” Beatrice whispered in her ear.

Olivia cast the duchess a grateful glance as Thornstock took her off to the floor. Fortunately, the dance was familiar, and the steps were ones she’d practiced often. She could almost enjoy the music.

Almost. Because his smile had vanished. The whole time they were doing the steps, he was staring intently at her. Glowering, really.

He stepped closer in the dance, his presence suddenly oppressive. She fancied she could feel the anger emanating from him, which was absurd. No experiment had ever proven that people could project their feelings into the air. Yet she would swear she felt palpable waves of bad temper coming from him.

She ignored the unsettling sensation. “Why are you so angry?”

“You know why.”

“Because I refused your offer of marriage years ago?”

“Certainly not! Damn you, I am not the one at fault here.”

They parted once more, and her heart began to clamor. How was she at fault? For that matter, what was she at fault for?

When they danced down the center of the two lines of other dancers, she was painfully conscious of his hand in the small of her back steadying her, of his other hand coming across to grip one of hers.

Beatrice had been right about one thing—Thornstock led very well. But this position was rather intimate. How could he hold her hand so tightly, yet still be angry at her? Feeling a need to understand him, she said, “I didn’t realize the Duke of Greycourt was your brother, you know, when I agreed to his request.”

Thornstock cast her a sidelong look. “Would it have made a difference?”

“Not really. But it seems to have angered you that he has engaged me to . . . er . . . perform these chemical tests.”

“I have good reason to be angry. You are not—” He broke off, apparently noticing that people were trying to overhear their conversation. He lowered his voice. “The woman I thought you were at first.”

“That’s not my fault. I was always ever myself. I cannot help it if you perceived that differently.”

He pinned her with his crystalline gaze. “I remember you telling me you weren’t a