Would I Lie to the Duke - Eva Leigh Page 0,22

ourselves to coffee and tea and something to eat.” He waved toward a table at the side of the room that contained refreshments suitable for the morning.

Noel tipped his head and went to pour himself some coffee. “At this hour, I cannot fathom why I have bestirred myself.”

“From what I’ve heard, there’s a new enlivening presence.” Walditch winked. “You threw Lord Ilsington off the sofa to sit beside her.”

“I practically threw him, but did not, in point of fact, actually throw him off the sofa. You would know if I did.”

Still, the display of territoriality was unusual—he never made claims on women’s attentions. It was just good manners to permit a woman to make up her own mind as to with whom she wanted to spend time. He wasn’t some oaf, imposing his slavering attendance on someone.

Yet he’d been impelled to be near Lady Whitfield, to fall into the depths of her perceptive golden eyes and even more perceptive thoughts.

Hell, there was no reason why he couldn’t follow the attraction crackling to life between them.

A moment later, she walked into the drawing room, her stride purposeful, her chin high. “Good morning, my lords, my ladies. Your Grace,” she added, turning to Noel.

When her gaze met his, an exquisite flare of nascent arousal crackled up his spine. He watched, fascinated, as the tip of her tongue wet her bottom lip.

He wasn’t mistaken. As intrigued as he was by her, she was equally enthralled by him.

Yes—this year’s Bazaar was far more interesting.

“Welcome back, my lady,” Lord Trask said.

Noel grabbed one of the small plates on the table, and quickly arranged some pastries atop it. He stepped forward and held it out to Lady Whitfield.

“You’ll want to fuel yourself for the morning ahead,” he said.

She gave him a polite smile. “Thank you, Your Grace, but I’ve had my breakfast already.”

He bit back a wry laugh. She likely had no idea that until that moment Noel had never waited on anyone. And yet his attention had been spurned. How novel.

“As you please,” he said affably as he handed the plate to a footman. “But when you’re nodding off and we’re hours from luncheon, you’ll regret that decision.”

“It wouldn’t be the first regret I’ve lived with. Nor the last.”

“We’re to begin in a moment, if you’d care to have a seat.” He waved toward the same sofa they’d occupied the day before. “And if you should feel faint from hunger, I will be right beside you, offering a manly shoulder to lean upon.”

“I’d thought that gallantry had gone the way of King Arthur,” she said, lowering herself down onto the sofa, “disappeared into the mists of time.”

“Aren’t you pleased to discover that you’re wrong?” He sat beside her, catching her fragrance of sunlit sweetness and breathing it in deeply.

“If you’re looking for a maiden in a tower to rescue, I must disappoint you. There is a shortage of castle turrets in Mayfair. And,” she added, her lips curving into a beguiling smile, “I am no maiden.”

“What a relief. Neither am I.”

Her laugh was liquid as it trickled warmly through his body.

Lord Trask coughed pointedly, and Noel reluctantly nodded his agreement that it was time to get to work.

He pulled out his notebook and pencil, then observed her tugging off her gloves before pulling a writing tablet and a piece of graphite from her reticule. There were no baubles on her fingers, not even a mourning ring. What would it feel like to have her trail one of her naked fingers across his shoulders?

“We’ve a full agenda today,” Lord Trask announced, “so let us begin at once. Our first presenter is Mr. Mitchell Hart, from West Bolton Mills.”

Noel braced himself for what he suspected was about to happen. His instinct proved correct when Hart commenced speaking at length about his cotton-milling establishment near Manchester. He talked of the speed with which his mill could produce muslin, aided in its pace by the scores of workers operating the equipment. Illustrations on placards depicted the layout and machinery.

Noel was careful to keep his expression neutral as he wrote No respite for workers in his notebook.

“From whence do you source your raw cotton?” Lady Farris asked from her place across the room. “Egypt? India?”

“I secure excellent cotton at minimal cost from suppliers who grow their cotton in the American South—predominantly in Georgia and Alabama.” Hart beamed. “American cotton is much less expensive than Asian, and of finer quality.”

An unsurprising revelation, but it cemented Noel’s decision to never invest in

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