He grimaced, ridiculously aware of the quickening beat of her pulse under his thumb, the flush of color that had risen in her cheeks, the way her sad smile made her eyes crinkle at the corners.
“I lost my father a few years ago too,” he admitted. “We didn’t have a particularly strong relationship, but I still can’t believe he’s gone.” Had he really just shared that? What was the matter with him?
Emerald eyes rose to meet and search his. “Was it difficult to take over the barony?”
He blinked. Just the one time. But it kept him from wincing at the lie which he suddenly regretted having told. “It was.”
She nodded. “I would imagine so. My mother’s death has left a chasm in all our lives that none of us can seem to fill. Part of it was emotional of course, but I didn’t expect everything else. I didn’t know how to run a house, or manage my father, or keep my sisters from falling into such a melancholy.”
He slowly drew her closer until he could feel her heat through his jacket. Ah, so sweet, he leaned down and drew in the Christmastide scent once again. “So, you hope to help your sisters and your father?”
She tilted her chin up and he had to clench his other fist at his side to keep from touching her face. “More than anything.”
Perhaps that was the reason she hoped to marry him. On the one hand, a woman shouldn’t want a man she’d pulled drunk from a snowbank. On the other, any husband would elevate her status enough to aid her sisters in making matches. And if she knew he was a duke…
“Lady Noelle, it has been a most interesting morning.” He dropped her hands, more than a little shocked at the direction of his thoughts. “I shall see you at tea.”
When he will have regained his sanity enough to tell her in no uncertain terms that her request was an impossible one. But the thought of marriage didn’t hold the same vitriol that normally filled his mouth.
She dipped into a curtsey. “Thank you, my lord. I appreciate your attendance and your consideration.”
He turned and exited the room, his gut rumbling. He’d like to blame the amount of alcohol he consumed last night but he might swear that what really troubled him was leaving her side. Which was ridiculous. He’d known the woman for all of a morning.
Although…that wasn’t exactly true. He’d known her for those few moments the night before—when she’d briefly covered his body with her own—when she’d pressed her lips against his.
Good Lord, his sorry self would still be buried in the snow if not for her.
As he left the house and crossed the common, he walked past the bakery on his way to the inn and did his best to ignore the distinct scent of gingerbread. He frowned as he hurried past the establishment. He’d not eat the sweet cookie now. No. He’d have a man’s breakfast of steak and eggs and potatoes. Then he’d drink a full cup of ale and he’d think on all the debaucheries he’d like to participate in once they’d arrived at the widow’s party.
If they made it that far, that was. Frost hovered in the air, portending additional snow. Damn and blast.
He’d drink his fill. Kiss droplets of brandy off of…what was her name? He couldn’t even picture the widow’s face.
Susan? Mary? Persephone? He shook his head.
As he reached the Crowing Cock Inn, his memory failed to summon images of anyone but one particularly managing miss.
Noelle. Lady Noelle Bailey.
The beat of her pulse, which had momentarily fluttered under his thumb, matched that of his own heart.
Damned ridiculous. Next thing he knew he’d be writing sonnets.
He walked by the desk and made his way into the common room, not surprised to see Nick sitting exactly where he’d left him, his head cradled in his hands. “Well, you survived the night, I see,” he called to his friend by way of greeting.
Nick didn’t so much as grimace when he lifted his head. “This place is cursed.”
Dash raised a brow as he lowered himself into a chair. “You spent the better part of the last year in France and you’re already cursing England?”
“Not England. Just…what bloody village are we in?” Nick dropped a heavy hand on the table, a loud thunk echoing through the room.
“Maybridge Falls,” he answered. “At least that’s what a little gingerbread fairy told me. And really, don’t bang your head on the table so loudly.” Now that he was no longer distracted by soft lips and an even softer figure, the pounding in his head had returned.
“Gingerbread fairy? Have you lost your bloody mind?” Nick straightened. “Since when do you go on about such drivel?”
Dash leaned forward setting his jaw in a hard line. “I say drivel whenever I damn please.”
Nick grunted, scrubbing his chin. “That sounds more like the surly duke I know.”
“If I’m spouting drivel then you’re particularly foul. Hangover that bad?”
Nick shook his dark head. “No. It is a normal sort of hangover.” He frowned. “But, I just saw a ghost.”
“A ghost?” Dash scrunched his brow together. What had gotten into Nick? But he didn’t have time to ask more as Jack walked into the room by way of the front door.
“Do you know what the most annoying thing on the whole of this Earth is?” He took the third chair at the table, looking nearly as cross as Nick. “A young woman who thinks she is intelligent.”
“Is she?” Nick asked, flagging the innkeeper. “Intelligent?”
“No. Just full of herself.” Jack scrubbed his hands through his hair. “Imagine some little miss telling me to get out of her way. I’m an earl and ten years her senior if not more.” He made a fist at the back of his head. “No respect.”
Dash glanced back and forth between his two friends. Everyone was out of sorts and no one was being specific as to why. Not that he was going to start sharing. They were the drink-until-passing-out sort of friends, not the ones to whom a man bared his soul. Not that he ever shared much of anything with anyone. His parents had made certain he knew how to keep those around him at a hostile arm’s length. Dear old mother and father had been excellent teachers, barely tolerating him and hating one another. For a moment, he allowed himself to consider what it might be like to lay his head on a nice bosom and share his darkest hurts.
Then he shook his head. He’d better eat a large breakfast and pull himself together before this tea. Hangovers made him weak.
As did dark-haired young women who tasted of gingerbread and stared at him with the eyes of an angel.
“Stop watching out the window, for heaven’s sake.” Her aunt’s hand on Noelle’s shoulder pushed her back onto her chair, but at the same time Aunt Winifred drew back the curtain herself and peeked out searchingly.
Noelle stretched her neck to look outside around her aunt’s ample frame. “It’s snowing again. What if he doesn’t come?” Although, if he failed to arrive for tea, weather would most likely not be the reason behind his absence.
“Mr. Clark said he specifically requested this meeting. Why on earth would he cry off? It’s not as if he’ll have anywhere else to go today.” Aunt Winifred could be utterly practical in some ways and utterly impractical in others. Rather than wearing a conservative day gown for tea today, she had donned a scarlet silk evening gown with a loose-fitting high waist and a very low bodice. Feathers of all colors sprang out from the snowy white hair piled atop her head.