They didn’t speak of the kiss at all the following day between three o’clock and four o’clock.
Out loud, at least.
She arrived at the usual time to find him seated at the desk, attending to what appeared to be a stack of correspondence, also as usual.
“Buonasera, Your Grace.”
“Buonasera, Miss Wylde.”
“At least the day is clement.”
“It is indeed, calm,” he agreed.
This, absurdly, was more or less how the hour proceeded.
They exchanged these polite sentences as though they were passing back and forth something that could scald them if it spilled.
They were absorbed in separate thoughts that were wholly about each other. The air was dense and buzzy with portent. It was as if yesterday they’d stumbled upon an underground cavern, in the depths of which they’d detected a seductive glitter.
Which could either be a treasure, or the eyes of a dangerous man- and woman-eating beast.
Or could be the whites of the judging eyes of the ton, who might strip the duke of his reputation like so many termites stripped wood should they ever learn he was consorting with her. Or run Mariana out of town on a rail.
It wasn’t comfortable. But it was thrilling.
There were any number of times in her life when she had asked, “Why me?”
But she knew the answer to that was, “Why not you?” Fate had such an insouciant shrug it must be French.
He would be an animal in bed, she thought. It was what she wanted. She suspected this said less about their natures than the alchemy of the two of them together.
She was furious—it seemed grotesquely unfair, yet another in a series of events that seemed grotesquely unfair—that her lust was adulterated by emotions she had no business entertaining. Ones that all but guaranteed pain.
And there he sat, a man of absolute composure. She thought of how many people had relied on him for safety. How in large part the reason everyone in England still spoke mainly English instead of French was because the man sitting in front of her somehow had risen to the occasion.
She imagined her arms wrapped around his waist.
She imagined screaming into a pillow while she came with him inside her.
“Is there anything new you’d like to learn in Italian today?”
Do not bother flirting with me, as I have been kissed by the Duke of Valkirk, and he has ruined me for all other men. That would be a useful sentence.
“Oh! I forgot to tell you that I received a letter—a rather plump one—written entirely in Italian. It’s from an opera director called Signor Roselli in Paris.” She did not add, where word that I am a pariah has not yet reached the populace, but it rather went without saying. “Mr. Giancarlo Giannini brought it to me when he, er, visited the other day.”
The name “Giancarlo” narrowed the duke’s eyes.
“I am able to read many of the words thanks to you—and I think he may be offering me a job, and I think he’s sent along a libretto. But his handwriting is quite shockingly bad.” She paused. “And he failed to include any illuminating illustrations in the margins.”
His mouth curved, but he didn’t lift his head, and his quill didn’t pause. “Did you happen to bring the letter with you today?”
She watched, transfixed, as the hand that had so lately squeezed her arse in order to press her up against his cock made what looked like a question mark, based on the swoop and dart of the quill.
She took a surreptitious breath.
“I fear it slipped my mind. I left it in my room.”
“I see.” There was a little silence as he continued writing. Scritch scritch scritch. “If you should find that some of the language contained in the letter eludes you, Miss Wylde . . .” He paused and looked up. Then leaned back in his chair.
“I should be happy to assist with the translation when I return later this evening. I’ve a meeting with my Man of Affairs after dinner, but I will be back in my rooms just before ten o’clock.”
Her heart lurched.
She stared at him.
She was a good pupil. She understood at once what this was.
And he was an extraordinary tactician. He’d seized upon an opportunity, and he’d made a decision. And he’d played a card.
The man who did everything right intended to break a rule for her.
Which meant, of course, it was now her turn to play one.
“Thank you.” Her voice was arid. “Your offer is kind.”
He gave a short nod and resumed writing.
If he was invested in a particular outcome, not a twitch betrayed it.
“Shall we review what you’ve learned today?” he asked politely. He put aside his work.
His Man of Affairs had foisted upon him more requests for donations, sponsorships, quotes, and speeches, and he’d carried it all back with him to The Grand Palace on the Thames, joining the group of ladies in the sitting room, sitting apart at his usual little table. The other gentlemen were out for the evening on a matter of business for the Triton Group. Mr. Delacorte had, it seemed, gone to a donkey race.
A sudden palpably anguished, tense silence made him look up abruptly.
“It’s the ballroom ceiling, Your Grace,” Mrs. Pariseau explained, gravely, noticing his gaze.
Everyone involved in the planning, and even those who were not, were deeply, passionately committed to a midnight-blue sky twinkling with stars for the Night of the Nightingale, but no one could agree on the best way to achieve it. Tammy, velvet, tulle, and silk were variously rejected as too expensive, too outlandishly expensive, or pure madness. And the notion of affixing the number of stars necessary to enchant all the guests was daunting, and neither Delilah nor Angelique was eager to put holes in a ceiling they’d only recently fully repaired.
“Fishing nets.”
Everyone in the room swiveled to stare at the duke. It was the first thing he’d said all evening.
“Dye fishing nets indigo or black. Attach the stars using fishing line to the holes on the net and then hoist the nets up. The stars will be easier to adjust in height that way if you wish. No need to attach anything to the ceiling. Use the chandelier as a center point to help support the nets but don’t light it, of course. Any hooks you install on either end of the room will be practical and support the weight of bunting or anything else you might use to decorate the room in the future.”
They listened to this crisp recitation with wide eyes.
And their expressions transformed as though he’d just won the war again.
“We’ll layer the nets,” Delilah said at once. “To get a denser sort of blue.”
“And I suspect we can get them, and the dye, free or cheaply or for trade of some kind, given the Triton Group’s dealings with shipping and the like,” Angelique added.
“I thought so,” he said pleasantly.
“Thank you, Your Grace,” Delilah said fervently.
He nodded.
It was the least he could do for spending the last half hour imagining the Night of the Nightingale’s star naked beneath him, her fingers digging into his shoulders as he thrust.
It seemed every breath he took was hot, as if the room was a blacksmith’s forge instead of a parlor full of pleasantly bickering people. Every muscle in his body, his every cell, was as alert with anticipation as the night before a battle.