Page 8 of How to Tempt a Duke

“This is a prime example of why I’ve employed his assistance.”

Lottie threaded her hand through the crook of the man’s elbow and drew him closer. He appeared to hesitate before Lottie gave him a firm tug.

“One can never anticipate what another will say.” She gazed up at him pointedly. “He’ll add a level of spontaneity to our lessons. And, I assure you, flirting with me for practice will be nowhere near as exciting as with him.”

“Ladies don’t flirt.”

Eleanor’s gaze flicked to the man as he was led closer. He was tall, his chest broad and his waist and hips narrow where his breeches encased his strong thighs. Heat touched Eleanor’s cheeks, and something deep inside bade her to stand and raise herself to her full height, to meet whatever challenge his presence had thrown at her feet.

“Oh, but they do,” Lottie said in a softly chiding tone. “It’s slight, mind you. A subtle play of words slipping between two people as if it were a language only they knew.”

Lottie was right, of course. Both about flirtation and about the subtlety of it, like a carefully memorized dance. Eleanor had done it with Hugh. Twice. Both times had been immediately followed by a rush of heady excitement.

And wasn’t she the fool for having permitted herself to be so audacious?

Her heart flinched, the way it always did when she considered those rare quiet moments with Hugh. Lord Ledsey.

“This will proceed more smoothly if you are honest with yourself and with me.” Lottie kept her voice kind, taking the edge from the words. “There are things ladies are not supposed to do and yet still actually do—with finesse, mind you. I think we can both agree that flirtation falls within that category.”

Eleanor’s palms were sweating within the confines of her gloves. She wanted to run from the room, rip them from her hands and let the cold air wash over her hot skin. But she had been raised to be stronger than that.

“I’m amenable to that consideration.”

“Excellent.” Lottie’s easy smile returned.

But it wasn’t excellent. Not at all. The room was too dark, the walls too close, the expectation placed on Eleanor far too great. However, for all she did not wish to be at Lottie’s town house, receiving this instruction, she was, at her core, a Murray—and Murrays did not show fear. Even when they tasted the metal of it in their mouths and were subjected to the tingling of it up their spines.

She would do this, attract a suitable husband, and then she would pretend as though it had never happened. She peeked at the man once more—a curious thing her eyes kept doing. Did he have to be so very handsome? And did he have to stare at her so unabashedly?

“The sherry is for you,” Lottie pointed out. “If you’d like it for your nerves.”

While tempted, Eleanor feared reaching for the glass might result in her brushing one of those marbled breasts gleaming in the lamplight. No, she would hold firm to her original resolve.

“Thank you, I’m fine.”

Lottie clasped her naked hands together. “In that case, let us begin.”

Chapter Three

Charles found the Westix chit prettier than he’d expected. Her hair was the same brilliant red as her father’s, her eyes pale. Though whether they were green or blue or some color in between was imperceptible in the muted light. She was fair, her skin a lovely porcelain-white, and her back was so straight that looking at such rigidity made his shoulders ache.

It was evident she was attempting to appear brave, but he knew that all Murrays at their core were cowards. No matter how this woman tried to play it, she was exactly the same as her father.

“Let us start with introductions.”

Lottie released Charles’s arm and beckoned him. He stepped closer, the obedient dog in this ridiculous dance.

The delicate muscles of Lady Eleanor’s neck stood out and a heavy awkwardness settled over the room.

“If he frightens you, I can send him away.” Lottie spoke in the same careful tone she’d used with the parishioners a lifetime ago.

Dear God, he wished Lady Eleanor would confess her fear and he could leave. He ground his teeth. Except there were the journals, of course—the reason he’d agreed to this damned fool of a scheme. He needed her to like him.

Lady Eleanor stood abruptly, reaching the impressive height of Charles’s chin. She tilted her face upward and peered boldly up at him. Green. Her eyes were green. And wide and attentive with a feline intensity.

“I am not so easily discouraged.”

Conviction laced her words, but the gentle flaring of her nostrils told a different tale. She was indeed scared. In truth, how could she not be put off by such a bizarre scenario as the one they all found themselves thrown into? At least the girl had sense.