Page 7 of Her Duke in Shining Armor
“No!” she said as forcefully as she could while trying to be quiet. “No…nothing like that, and don’t go assuming anything of the sort.”
“But you think all men are like him,” Aaron concluded as the distressed look in her eyes bothered him. “That all men have something to hide and that we are all hypocrites?”
Lady Eleanor softly pulled away, and her eyes were guarded, “Aren’t you?”
“Lady Eleanor!” the aghast whisper of a lady came from the doorway, came from the doorway. “My lady, this isn’t proper!”
“I know Miss Malcolm. I know. I was just about to leave,” she said while not moving her enigmatic glance from Aaron, but then she dipped out a graceful curtsy. “Goodbye, Your Grace.”
Aaron watched her walk away, only to be corralled into the shelter of her chaperone’s gaze. He stood there on the chilly terrace, feeling disturbed for two striking reasons: the beautiful arches of Lady Eleanor’s cheekbones and the glimmer of the pearls in her hair, while she curtsied, had entranced him; and, secondly, what was wrong in the Stanley house? Was Duke Brisdane cold and distant to his daughter?
More importantly, though, he realized that he, and everyone else, had been wrong was about Lady Eleanor. It was not that she didn’t like men, she just did not know them. And moreover, on account of the precedent her father had set, it did not seem as if she was aiming to know any of them.
“Well then,” Aaron realized while shooting back the rest of his drink. “I guess the only remedy is to show her.”
* * *
The whispered sermon on acts of propriety that Miss Malcolm was giving her went in one ear and out the other. The heiress to the Brisdane dukedom was more concerned with the disconcerting meeting she had just had with the Duke of Oberton.
“Do you understand, my lady?”
She had no idea what Miss Malcolm had lectured her about, but she pretended she did and waved her acquiescence, “Yes, yes, I do.”
Taking a seat near the dancefloor, Eleanor reflected on what had transpired between her and the Duke. He had certainly grown, that was obvious. His green eyes seemed calmer, more…attuned and decidedly wiser, but what shook her was his voice. It was deep and resonant with the quality of deep water, calm and steady but with a powerful undercurrent.
Oxford has certainly matured him.
“Lady Eleanor?”
“Yes, Miss Malcolm.”
“The first dance is about to start and—”
“My card is empty,” Eleanor surmised.
“It is not but…I cannot explain,” her chaperone said while handing over the card and Eleanor opened the leaf. Instantly, her eyebrows shot up to her hairline. Though her card was signed with Lord Lancaster’s name first, nestled into the middle wasanothercard, with the name Aaron Barvolt, Duke of Oberton written on every line.
Her first impulse was to get cross,surelythis was a jest, but looking up she saw him not too far away with another flute of champagne in his hand. He was talking to some gentlemen. While her eyes held his, she plucked out the insert and held it between two gloved fingers so he could see it, his lips curled and then he lifted his glass to her.
“Lady Eleanor?” Miss Malcolm fretted.
“It is nothing, Miss Malcolm,” Eleanor said while secreting the lone leaf into her reticule and handing the card back to her chaperone. “Please, think nothing of it.”
Eleanor’s focus was now solidly on the Duke of Oberton. What did he mean by sending her a card with only his name on it? What was he trying to prove?
The orchestra musicians were taking their seats and Miss Malcolm hurried over to her. “My lady, Lord Lancaster is your first dance.”
For once, Eleanor was too mired in her own thoughts and did not resist when the lord, a handsome young man with deep grey eyes came to claim her for the dance. The ladies on the dancefloor were a medley of brilliant butterflies, a strong contrast to their darkly-clad gentlemen counterparts.
“Thank you for dancing with me, Lady Eleanor.”
She blinked, was the dance over already? Then she flushed seeing that there were only getting in line, “It is my pleasure, Lord Lancaster.”
Two hours of dancing and polite conversation passed pleasantly enough but with every passing dance, she expected the Duke of Oberton to be her next. He wasn’t. Every time a dance ended, and she returned to her seat, she felt like the card he had signed was burning a hole through her reticule.
Was the Duke just playing with her?
The last dance was approaching and with it, she let the last strands of hope that Barvolt was next partner to flutter away. Her hand closed over the reticule and a soft sigh left her mouth.
