Page 27 of A Lady of Means
His Grace nodded, taking the pool stick from Valentine.Belatedly, she noticed his wavy hair was artfully mussed, and Moria saw what looked like a bruise on his neck.Given what she’d been doing with Devyn, she didn’t have a right to be as curious about who had put that mark on him, who had mussed his hair.
“In that case, consider your game over, Lady Fox,” His Grace said as he lined up his shot, sinking two of her balls in one pocket.When he locked eyes with Moria, her mouth went a little dry, she tightened her hold on her pool stick.She didn’t like this feeling, like wishing she could stand in two places at once, not one bit.
She merely smiled at the Duke and the other men before her.“It’s over when I say it’s over, Your Grace,” she said, making another successful shot.When she looked up, Valentine gave her a knowing wink.
ChapterEleven
The Burn Bookof Lady M
His Grace, The Duke of Andover, George Worthington: I would never be so bold as to record scurrilous sentiments about a man of such elevated station, if I only could think of such sentiments to write regarding his character.
* * *
“For once,the flowers arriving on our doorstep are for someone other than you,” Moria’s brother Lawrence chided.Turning to their younger sister Olivia, Lawrence added, “Moria is living proof that the more people are afraid of you, the more flowers you get.”
Moria stifled the urge to kick him in the shins underneath the breakfast table.Ladies did not resort to such behavior.“Don’t you have somewhere else to sleep now?”
“Lawrence, stop baiting our sister,” Jasper called from behind his newspaper.“Moria’s maneuvers at last night’s inaugural ball, it seems, especially Olivia’s dancing with an eligible Duke, have been successful.I don’t even recall seeing you in attendance,” Jasper lowered his newspaper to eye their brother skeptically.Moria preened, smug at the praise, at Jasper sticking up for her.Lawrence let out a huff and rolled his eyes, and when he left the table, tugged on the end of Moria’s braid.
Slamming her teacup hastily into its saucer, Moria chased after her brother, like they were still in short clothes.She nearly tripped over one of her nephew’s toys in the hall, but when she rounded the corner, the sight before her made Moria stop short, clutching her chest to catch her breath.
The London Pembrooke drawing room, foyer, and dining room looked like the contents of London’s florists had been ignominiously deposited.Flowers of every shade and variety addressed to both Lady Moria, and on the card Lawrence handed her, her newly debuted and equally lovely younger sister, Lady Olivia.
Olivia entered the sitting room behind her, holding a calico kitten.The butler and housekeeper had already started sorting through the flowers and cards, but Moria wanted to know if any were from Devyn.He’d sent them before, it had given her a reason to return them, to prolong their…whatever they were.Now he was back from Belgium and happening upon her at a ball for the first time, declaring his intent, and she had to, in the light of day, plan her next move.
She felt Olivia’s hand at her elbow.“Moria,” she said, handing her a card, “these are from the Duke.He sent flowers to both of us, but I thought you should read this card.”
“I heard that you have an affinity for orchids.But you, my lady, are no hothouse flower.I’ve arranged a selection for you from my mother and sister’s terrace garden.They persist without constant sunlight and through repeated downpours.A much better arrangement for a lady of all seasons.
George Worthington, Duke of Andover
* * *
When the Dukecame to call an hour later, she was still thinking of the thoughtfulness behind the flowers.She sat nervously anticipating him bringing up the Captain, or even Drysdale, readying a plausibly evasive response in her head.
But he didn’t.He only asked after her dancing injury.Told her he admired her taking pity on Miss Herring.She wasn’t sure what to make of that.Perhaps it said something of her relationship or potential for one with the duke that she had known him for nearly 14 months and still found him hard to read.She asked after his family, expecting a cursory answer.
“May I speak plainly?”
Moria had been wanting him to do so for the 14 months she’d known the man.“I adore speaking plainly,” she said, taking a bite of the biscuit on her plate and keeping her eyes on him.
Miss Kelley cleared her throat from her seat to Moria’s left.
“I am not sure that you have had the pleasure of meeting the dowager duchess yet, but she is rather keen for me to marry,” he said, fidgeting with his hands.That wasn’t exactly speaking plainly.
“I can’t imagine why.The longer you are on the market, the longer she curries favors from eager families wanting your…” she looked down at his fingers, “hand.”
“You make me sound like some maidenly debutante.”
“Are our positions all that different?”
This garnered a smile from him, and good god, how did he go anywhere with teeth so blindingly white?He was dazzling.Wasn’t he?
“I concede your point,” he said.
“Can’t imagine a duke utters those words often.I’ll make a note of the date and commit it to memory.”
He laughed.It wasn’t the kind of laugh that incited riots of longing or affection, but she could grow to find it one if she were a patient woman.Wasn’t she?
