The Duchess War
Page 23
She tapped a gloved finger against her lips. “You keep saying that I found nothing,” she mused. “You’re wrong. I discovered that the handbills weren’t being printed in Leicester. As there’s only one possible suspect who is not a native, I think I’ve made quite an advance.”
He blinked. He had the sense that he was lost in those quiet gray eyes, unable to look away from her. He was a duke. She was a—what had she called herself? A half-blind near-spinster. It shouldn’t even have been a fair fight.
“You think,” she said, “because you’ve identified one purpose of mine, that you know what I’m doing. But this inquiry among the printers was something of a discovered attack.”
Standing this close to her, he could begin to see the difference. She was still looking down, still acting shy and quiet so that anyone more than three paces away would have no idea what she was saying. But there was a little more excitement in her hands. Her lips twitched, on the verge of smiling.
“What do you mean, a discovered attack?”
“A tactical term.” She touched her fingertips together. “When you make a move, you do two things. First, you move forward—and the space you now occupy has value. But you also vacate the spot where you once were, exposing your enemy’s flank to longer-ranged attacks. Be aware of where you are, and the space you’ll leave behind.”
“That’s not a sense of tactics you have,” he said, blinking down at her. “That sounds like actual tactical training. Where would a half-blind near-spinster acquire that?”
Where would any woman get that, for that matter? But Miss Pursling didn’t seem to be rattled.
“I have collected a stack of papers that will show you to be the culprit. What have you accomplished, Your Grace? You’ve pretended to flirt with me.”
He blinked, utterly startled. She wasn’t looking at him. Of course she wasn’t looking at him. She studied the pavement beneath her feet as if she were just another pale, downtrodden woman, unable to look him in the eyes.
“Pretending?” He felt almost dangerous. “You don’t meet my eyes. You whisper your clever responses. You shy away from any hint that you’re an intelligent woman. You’re the one who pretends, my dear.”
Her eyes widened slightly. “That—that is just conformity to the pressures of society—”
“Is it? Look up, Minnie. Look in my eyes. Let everyone on this street see what we both know is true. You’re not deferring to me. You’re challenging me. Look up.”
She didn’t. Her head remained stubbornly bowed before him. He wanted to grab her and shake her. He wanted to tilt her chin up and force her to gaze in his eyes. He wanted—
He wanted a great many things after that, none of which he was going to get from her by force.
“I’m not pretending to flirt with you,” he said instead. “There’s no pretense in it. I want you. God, I want you.”
She let out a little gasp and then—almost involuntarily—she looked up.
For just one moment, he saw something he thought was not pretense—a hopeless yearning in the way her face tilted toward his, a flutter in her ragged exhalation. Her lips parted, and she seemed suddenly, devastatingly beautiful.
But she shut her eyes and looked down again. Her breaths came a little louder; her fists clenched at her side. She shook her head. “Lucky you,” she said bitterly. “Lucky you that you can plan and think and plot without pretense. That you can want openly, that you don’t have to stuff it all inside yourself to molder. Lucky you that you can lift your eyes to the sky without singeing your wings. Lucky you that you can consider the future without terror.”
Her hands were beginning to shake.
“I have looked high.” Her voice was an urgent whisper. “And I have fallen farther than you can imagine. So don’t you lecture me. All I want is to pretend that this is enough—that I can be satisfied by the scraps that remain to me. ”
He had that sense again, of a great beast pacing in its cage. He wanted to touch her cheek, to turn her face up to his. He wanted to whisper that all would be well.
“Minnie,” he said instead.
She winced. “Don’t say my name like that. Please, Your Grace. If you have any care for me at all—pretend to flirt. But don’t actually do it.”
“Minnie,” he repeated instead. “Who would you be if you didn’t devote three-quarters of your attention to hiding what you could accomplish?”
She shook her head. “Don’t tell me to look up. Don’t ask me to want. If I do, I’ll never survive.” Her voice was shaking. He would have thought her on the verge of tears, by the sound of her. But her eyes were dry and clear and fixed on the pavement.
In that moment, he longed to take her in his arms and hold her close, to make her safe from whatever it was she feared. If she’d looked up at him again for even one second, he would have kissed her, and to hell with everyone around them.
She didn’t. Instead, she seemed to gather in that unnatural, graceful calm with every breath.
“Marybeth Peters is waiting for me by the pump,” she said, her voice smooth once more. “If I might withdraw, Your Grace?”
It wasn’t a question. He didn’t have a choice.
And so he watched her walk away, letting her return to pacing the confines of her cage.
Chapter Seven
When Minnie arrived home, her great-aunts met her at the door, all aflutter. The reason for their excitement quickly became apparent when they told her that Walter Gardley was waiting in the front room. Alone.
Gardley. At this, of all times!
Minnie set her hand over her abdomen. It felt as if a fire raged inside her, as if she’d gorged herself on all the things the duke had said.
You’re an intelligent, brilliant woman.
Look up.
I want you. God, I want you.
She couldn’t go to Gardley feeling this way. But she had little enough choice in the matter. If she sent him away, he’d only return. And if he didn’t…
She smoothed her skirt and went in to see him.
He stood as she entered the room. “There you are,” he said—precisely as if he had mislaid her, and only now discovered her amidst the dust balls under the divan.
She tried to tell herself that he wasn’t so bad. He was handsome enough, as these things went. He was only a few years older than she, and didn’t look as if he would lose his hair.
You’re the one that’s pretending, she could hear the duke whisper behind her back.
He blinked. He had the sense that he was lost in those quiet gray eyes, unable to look away from her. He was a duke. She was a—what had she called herself? A half-blind near-spinster. It shouldn’t even have been a fair fight.
“You think,” she said, “because you’ve identified one purpose of mine, that you know what I’m doing. But this inquiry among the printers was something of a discovered attack.”
Standing this close to her, he could begin to see the difference. She was still looking down, still acting shy and quiet so that anyone more than three paces away would have no idea what she was saying. But there was a little more excitement in her hands. Her lips twitched, on the verge of smiling.
“What do you mean, a discovered attack?”
“A tactical term.” She touched her fingertips together. “When you make a move, you do two things. First, you move forward—and the space you now occupy has value. But you also vacate the spot where you once were, exposing your enemy’s flank to longer-ranged attacks. Be aware of where you are, and the space you’ll leave behind.”
“That’s not a sense of tactics you have,” he said, blinking down at her. “That sounds like actual tactical training. Where would a half-blind near-spinster acquire that?”
Where would any woman get that, for that matter? But Miss Pursling didn’t seem to be rattled.
“I have collected a stack of papers that will show you to be the culprit. What have you accomplished, Your Grace? You’ve pretended to flirt with me.”
He blinked, utterly startled. She wasn’t looking at him. Of course she wasn’t looking at him. She studied the pavement beneath her feet as if she were just another pale, downtrodden woman, unable to look him in the eyes.
“Pretending?” He felt almost dangerous. “You don’t meet my eyes. You whisper your clever responses. You shy away from any hint that you’re an intelligent woman. You’re the one who pretends, my dear.”
Her eyes widened slightly. “That—that is just conformity to the pressures of society—”
“Is it? Look up, Minnie. Look in my eyes. Let everyone on this street see what we both know is true. You’re not deferring to me. You’re challenging me. Look up.”
She didn’t. Her head remained stubbornly bowed before him. He wanted to grab her and shake her. He wanted to tilt her chin up and force her to gaze in his eyes. He wanted—
He wanted a great many things after that, none of which he was going to get from her by force.
“I’m not pretending to flirt with you,” he said instead. “There’s no pretense in it. I want you. God, I want you.”
She let out a little gasp and then—almost involuntarily—she looked up.
For just one moment, he saw something he thought was not pretense—a hopeless yearning in the way her face tilted toward his, a flutter in her ragged exhalation. Her lips parted, and she seemed suddenly, devastatingly beautiful.
But she shut her eyes and looked down again. Her breaths came a little louder; her fists clenched at her side. She shook her head. “Lucky you,” she said bitterly. “Lucky you that you can plan and think and plot without pretense. That you can want openly, that you don’t have to stuff it all inside yourself to molder. Lucky you that you can lift your eyes to the sky without singeing your wings. Lucky you that you can consider the future without terror.”
Her hands were beginning to shake.
“I have looked high.” Her voice was an urgent whisper. “And I have fallen farther than you can imagine. So don’t you lecture me. All I want is to pretend that this is enough—that I can be satisfied by the scraps that remain to me. ”
He had that sense again, of a great beast pacing in its cage. He wanted to touch her cheek, to turn her face up to his. He wanted to whisper that all would be well.
“Minnie,” he said instead.
She winced. “Don’t say my name like that. Please, Your Grace. If you have any care for me at all—pretend to flirt. But don’t actually do it.”
“Minnie,” he repeated instead. “Who would you be if you didn’t devote three-quarters of your attention to hiding what you could accomplish?”
She shook her head. “Don’t tell me to look up. Don’t ask me to want. If I do, I’ll never survive.” Her voice was shaking. He would have thought her on the verge of tears, by the sound of her. But her eyes were dry and clear and fixed on the pavement.
In that moment, he longed to take her in his arms and hold her close, to make her safe from whatever it was she feared. If she’d looked up at him again for even one second, he would have kissed her, and to hell with everyone around them.
She didn’t. Instead, she seemed to gather in that unnatural, graceful calm with every breath.
“Marybeth Peters is waiting for me by the pump,” she said, her voice smooth once more. “If I might withdraw, Your Grace?”
It wasn’t a question. He didn’t have a choice.
And so he watched her walk away, letting her return to pacing the confines of her cage.
Chapter Seven
When Minnie arrived home, her great-aunts met her at the door, all aflutter. The reason for their excitement quickly became apparent when they told her that Walter Gardley was waiting in the front room. Alone.
Gardley. At this, of all times!
Minnie set her hand over her abdomen. It felt as if a fire raged inside her, as if she’d gorged herself on all the things the duke had said.
You’re an intelligent, brilliant woman.
Look up.
I want you. God, I want you.
She couldn’t go to Gardley feeling this way. But she had little enough choice in the matter. If she sent him away, he’d only return. And if he didn’t…
She smoothed her skirt and went in to see him.
He stood as she entered the room. “There you are,” he said—precisely as if he had mislaid her, and only now discovered her amidst the dust balls under the divan.
She tried to tell herself that he wasn’t so bad. He was handsome enough, as these things went. He was only a few years older than she, and didn’t look as if he would lose his hair.
You’re the one that’s pretending, she could hear the duke whisper behind her back.
