Page 10 of Season of the Scoundrel
The duke leaned forward and planted his elbows on the blotter, his hands laced in front of him. “Are you always so impulsive, Miss Bridewell?”
Ivy hesitated, but she wasn’t particularly good at being anything other than who she was. “I suppose I am, Your Grace, especially in a situation like yesterday’s. No one else stepped in for the child.”
“It was rather heroic of you, Miss Bridewell.” His full lips didn’t quite curve up, but they twitched as if they might.
Ivy was so astounded by the compliment after his grumbling condemnation yesterday and his narrow-eyed assessment today that she couldn’t form a reply. Heat began to seep into her cheeks.
How dare he? She was never speechless.
The worst part was that she sensed he knew exactly what he’d done. His blue-violet eyes seemed to twinkle in the room’s gaslight.
Being irritated with him had been preferable to being so flustered she couldn’t speak.
“Yesterday you said I wasbloody reckless,” she reminded him, though she didn’t sound indignant. She sounded breathless.
He smiled at that, and the appeal of it stole a bit more of her composure. “Can it not be both? Itwasreckless, but it was also admirable.”
“I…see.” Ivy licked her lips. She pressed her palms against her folio where it lay in her lap. She willed her body to stop overheating.
“So, it is a coincidence that you, the lady who crashed into me yesterday, is the relation of my friend, the Duke of Edgerton?” he asked, his voice low and steady.
How could he be so steady when she struggled to form a complete sentence? There was a power about him, an arrogance. That quality, she supposed, was typical of dukes.
“It is a coincidence, Your Grace.” There. That was as undeniable fact.
A painfully inconvenient one, but true, nonetheless.
“You have your portfolio.” He nodded toward the leather-bound folder in her lap.
“I do.” Ivy took a deep breath, steeled herself, and handed her writing over to be perused again and potentially judged as harshly as Mr. Smythe had.
Blackbourne slid the folio toward him across his desk, tugged the leather tie free, and looked inside.
As he sifted the pages, Ivy got caught up in studying his face, the waves of his hair. He looked up at her from under his brows, head still bent, as if sensing her scrutiny.
Ivy immediately snapped her gaze toward a framed painting on the wall of a balding man with tufts of white hair and wide-set eyes. He looked out at her with pride in his expression.
“Masterson,” the duke said without looking up. “He founded the newspaper twenty-two years ago.”
“He looks pleased with his achievement.”
“Mmm.”
Ivy couldn’t detect whether the murmured sound was in response to her assessment of Mr. Masterson or the duke’s assessment of her writing.
“The Porphyrion scheme was already mentioned inThe Timesa month ago,” he said, glancing up at her again.
“Yes, but it was nothing more than a mere recitation of the scheme’s unraveling. As you can see, I spoke to several of the individuals who were disastrously impacted and one clerk?—”
“Who wished to remain anonymous,” Blackbourne cut in.
“He was only willing to be so forthright upon that condition, so I accepted it.”
Blackbourne flipped the pages over and his hand stilled. His expression seemed to tighten.
Ivy craned her neck a bit and noticed he’d begun reviewing her piece about Lord Penrose. He’d no doubt think it reckless, since she had openly named the viscount.
“What is it?” she couldn’t help but ask.
