Page 22 of My Dearest Duke

A few minutes ago, she was at her wit's end, and now she giggled like a schoolgirl.

At the entrance, Kingston glanced down at her. “Shall we advance into her lair together? Present a united front?”

“Indeed, sir knight. I believe we must.” Another giggled tickled her throat, but she squelched it.

The corners of his eyes crinkled in jollity as he made a pretense of looking about again. “Alas, there are no swords or shields for which we might protect ourselves.”

“I trust you to protect me.” She batted her eyelashes and put the back of her hand to her forehead in a dramatic fashion.

“With my life, fair maiden,” he said with another raffish wink. “Onward.”

They entered the salon to find Mrs. Dorrian-Lane holding a glass of umber-colored spirits. One elegant arm crossed over her chest, she tapped her fingers impatiently on her other upper arm. Flicking her wrist, she silently waved them to a settee with practiced, imperial indolence.

Her insouciance manner didn’t fool Vanessa.

She wouldn’t be surprised if armed men weren’t hiding behind the draperies; their pistols pointed at her and Kingston this very minute.

“Brandy? Sherry? Champagne?” their hostess offered, sounding the most cordial she had since coming upon Vanessa and Kingston.

Vanessa shook her head as she untied her mask.

She sighed in relief as she lifted the satin from her face. It hadn’t been uncomfortable, but she didn’t like the cloying sensation it created.

Kingston demurred, as well. “No, thank you.”

His gaze caught Vanessa’s, and for several heartbeats, time hung suspended. His compelling gaze probed hers, wonder and awe in the depths of his crystal-blue eyes. Little golden flecks glittered there, and she found herself never wanting to look away.

Mrs. Dorrian-Lane pointedly clearing her throat, brought Vanessa crashing back to the present.

“Miss Becket, you’ve thoroughly complicated my plans for Mr. Barclay,” she said, coming directly to the point.

Why did Vanessa have the distinct impression the woman was taking her measure? Again.

“I have?” Vanessa blinked. How could she possibly have done? “May I ask in what way?”

She slid Kingston a sideways, bewildered glance.

He skewed an eyebrow upward a fraction in an “I haven’t a clue, either” movement.

“Indeed,” Mrs. Dorrian-Lane said matter of factly. “I’ve concluded you and Mr. Barclay have a history of some sort. I don’t normally arrange matches for gentlemen, and I hadn’t decided whether to do so in his case as yet. I generally perform my matchmaking services exclusively for ladies. We have so little power in a man’s world, you see.”

What could Vanessa say to that?

Good Lord, she certainly wasn’t here to hire the woman for that godawful purpose.

She found the notion revolting in the extreme.

“Let me save you some time, Mrs. Dorrian-Lane,” Kingston interjected. “I thought perhaps you might sponsor an auction with me”—he patted his broad chest— “as the—ah—object to be bid upon. The highest bidder becomes my duchess when I inherit the title.”

“My God, no!” Vanessa’s objection rang loudly, causing Kingston and Mrs. Dorrian-Lane to whip their attention to her. A pregnant silence fell upon the room, punctuated by the gilded bronze Parisienne mantel clock’s tick-tock, tick-tock.

She didn’t care that she was intruding into a private matter.

Kingston couldn’t be sold as if he were a stud stallion. My God. The humiliation and degradation.

“No, I say.” Vanessa slapped a palm upon her knee for emphasis. “You’re not a bloody horse or a bull or a…a hog, Kingston.” Vanessa’s voice rose on the last, and she turned to him, unsure even what to say to dissuade him from this preposterous proposition. “You cannot do it, Kingston. I shan’t let you.”

He arched a dark blond eyebrow in that commanding fashion she remembered.