Ralph put down his empty tea cup with a snap.
‘Some more tea, Mr Thorne?’ Try as she might, her voice sounded strained to her own ears. It would be Ralph’s third cup and he was already ten minutes past the half-hour’s stay that, by custom, morning calls were limited to. Across the room the Wigtons, who had arrived after him, were getting to their feet and making their farewells.
‘Thank you, but I must take my leave. Miss Wilmott.’ Ralph rose and bowed slightly, making eye contact with pointed emphasis. ‘Cousin.’ She watched him as he made his way across to her mother, exchanging a word with the remaining guests as he went. Surely he was not put out because Cal had joined them? That would imply that he was jealous – and that he had something to be jealous about. Or a right to the emotion, come to that, given that he had not said a word that might be construed as intended to fix her interest.
Now she was being unfair. She had considered Ralph Thorne as a potential husband very seriously, so she had no right to feel he was being presumptuous in taking an interest in her and her relationship with other men. And she had encouraged him, gone driving with him, browsed and chatted in the bookshop when they met there, strolled with him in the park. Danced two sets with him at every ball this Season.
The man might very reasonably feel he had some claim on her attention after that, even if he was playing his own cards very close to his chest.
‘Miss Wilmott?’
She started in her seat and turned back to the Duke. ‘Your Grace?’
‘The weather seems settled fair. Will you do me the pleasure of driving with me tomorrow?’
Would she? Ralph usually asked her to drive with him when he came to take tea, but today he had not. Even so, she had absolutely no excuse for driving with the Duke. Or having anything to do with him, come to that.
‘I bought a matched pair of bays for my new high-perch curricle at Tattersalls’ this morning. Will you adorn it when I show them off for the first time?’
The temptation was strong and, of course, it was the prospect of driving in a sporting vehicle and pair, not by the prospect of his company, that lured her. Sophie winced at her own attempts at self-delusion. ‘Should you be driving with an injured arm, Duke?’
‘It is my whip hand so I find I can manage well enough. In fact I am only wearing this sling to convince my secretary that I cannot tackle the pile of paperwork he has deposited on my desk.’
She did not believe that for a moment. ‘Or perhaps you wear it to attract the ladies by appearing to be a wounded hero. Which, of course, you are,’ she added, contrite. ‘I shudder to think what might have happened to that poor child, or, to be utterly selfish, how I would be feeling now, if I had hurt her.’
‘I have not noticed any hero-worship so far. Lots of meaningful gazes because I am a duke, of course. It is very flattening to one’s self-esteem to know one’s title is the main attraction.’
‘As opposed to your beautiful soul or your great mind or your fine profile?’ Sophie enquired wickedly.
‘Ah, some hero worship at last. You had noticed those?’ The deep voice sank to a seductive murmur and his enigmatic eyes gazed into hers, keeping their secrets.
‘No, I cannot say that I have. You, Duke, are a wicked man.’ She knew he seen the twitch of her lips that she simply could not control.
‘Despite that, will you drive with me?’
It was very tempting to say yes. Was it always wrong to give in to temptation? Yes, she was going to drive with him. It was a foregone conclusion from the moment he asked her, and she knew it. There was only so much will-power a woman could exert. He was gorgeous, he made her laugh, he was dangerously seductive. Not that she would ever allow herself to be seduced again.
‘Yes, I will, thank you.’
‘At three if that is convenient?’
The other guests were rising to leave and the Duke rose with them, made his farewells with the maximum of grace and the minimum of fuss. Sophie watched him listening to Lady Philpott’s chatter as she preceded him into the hallway, answering her nonsense with grave courtesy. Oh dear, she could come to like the wretched man entirely too well.
‘A note for you, Miss Wilmott.’ Parrot stood beside her, proffering a salver with one folded sheet of paper on it. ‘Mr Thorne realised he had forgotten to ask you something and did not feel he should intrude again.’