Page 16 of Nothing Compares to the Duke
When she turned to face him, the green-gold gaze that speared him held none of the warmth he’d once found in her eyes.
“Didn’t know you were invited, Claremont.” Lord Teasdale’s nasal voice was high, defensive.
Rhys had beaten him at cards often enough for the man to loathe him for that alone, but since inheriting his father’s title, he’d found that men’s loathing now came with a tinge of jealousy.
“He wasn’t.”
“I wasn’t.” He and Bella spoke nearly in unison, their gazes never wavering from each other’s. Emotion flickered behind the fierceness in her eyes, but he couldn’t tell whether it was surprise or something else.
“Miss Prescott,” he asked, “may I speak to you? Alone.”
She gave no reply, but her shoulders tightened. The soft curve of her jaw drew taut.
When neither of the gentlemen made any move to depart, Bella’s cousin, Louisa, spoke up from where she stood next to Rhys on the threshold.
“Gentlemen,” she began in a commanding tone, “my aunt will consider you long absent from the drawing room. I’m returning there now. I suggest you follow.” She cast Bella a look, eyebrows raised in curiosity.
“Won’t that leave Miss Prescott unchaperoned?” Mr. Nix asked.
Rhys sensed Louisa watching him and turned to find her giving him a scrutinizing perusal.
“The Duke of Claremont and my cousin were childhood friends and haven’t seen each other for many years.” She waved the two gentlemen from the room,and they shuffled out with their chins up, chests puffed as if they hadn’t almost been slapped by the angry daughter of their host.
Rhys was tempted to close the door behind them, but he knew it wasn’t proper. God help him, he thought of those things now.
He waited, expecting her anger. There was a great deal they’d left unsaid.
After staring at him a moment, she turned and strode toward the back of the room. He expected her to approach the window, so that she could look out onto anything rather than face him. But instead she went to a case that held billiard cues and took one down. After a long still pause, she turned toward the billiard table and began arranging the balls, as if she’d just come into the room for a game and he was merely an incidental distraction.
Rhys tapped his boot against the carpet. Tapped his fingers against his thigh. Reading was his bane but he usually knew the right words to say. “Silver-tongued,” one lady he’d wooed had called him. Now the words wouldn’t come. The feelings were all there, heavy on his chest, but they wouldn’t arrange themselves into polished sentences.
“Arry—”
“Don’t call me that.” She turned to face him. “No one calls me that.” She tipped her head down, stared at the carpet, and then at him again.
“Bella—”
“Do you remember how to play?”
Images filled his mind instantly. Memories teeming with laughter and wagers that were for stakes no higher than lemon scones and based mostly on childhood bluster.
“I remember that you always won,” he admitted.
Her mouth twitched, and Rhys hoped it meant she was tempted to smile.
“Shall we see if you’ve improved at all?” She gestured to the cue rack and tipped her head in a way he’d seen her do a hundred times. Her voice was cool, emotionless, but her nod was a gesture of challenge. And if she knew him at all, she knew he could never say no to a challenge.
Rather than answer, he shrugged out of his coat and tossed the garment onto the back of a chair. Then he began rolling up his sleeves as he approached the cues. She watched him steadily but without giving anything away. Then she went back to arranging the balls on the green felt billiard tabletop.
“What are we playing for?” he asked, approaching the opposite side of the table.
Her high-necked gown hid much but he noted that she swallowed hard and squared her shoulders before answering.
“A favor.”
Rhys wondered for a moment if he’d heard her correctly. A favor was precisely what he needed from her.
“I’ll agree to that.”
