Page 28 of His Wild Duchess
“George.”
“Now,” he mused, looking rather proud of himself, “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”
“And you were just about to answer my question.”
George frowned. “We’ll revisit it on the way home, when I’ve had enough time to…ruminate.”
“And by ruminate,” she snapped, “You mean come up with a lie.”
“You offend me, darling.”
Penelope crossed her arms. “Want to have a go at using my name next?”
After he let out a sharp laugh, George looked back at her amusingly. “For heaven’s sake, I wish you could understand what a shame it is that you were born in London.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“With the greatest respect, you would’ve flourished in the New World. I’m sure of it.”
Penelope lowered her head to watch the dogs, trying to hide the smile that crept across her lips. “You’re quite the talker, George. Don’t think I forgot my question.”
George sighed, the amusement only lingering across his face. “There wasn’t a moment in my life that I thought I’d wear the title of Duke of Yeats.”
“Really?”
“Not that I was a fool who believed my father to be an immortal man,” he quickly said. “But rather, I never stopped to picture myself within his shoes, and thus thought it to be impossible.”
Penelope tilted her head at him, entirely intrigued by his character, but not wanting to pry too deep. “So being called ‘your Grace’...”
“Feels like you aren’t speaking to me,” he finished, warm eyes falling upon her in an instant. “Penelope.”
Her breath stilled as he held her stare. It was an oddly heavy moment, suddenly, one that Penelope found herself scrambling to recover from. She pulled her gaze away, swallowing down the unsteady anxiety that threatened to rise out of her. When she glanced back at him, there was a small frown twitching at the side of his lip.
Penelope cleared her throat. “I don’t think you’ve told me where we are headed.”
“I was able to locate a cottage that resides an hour and a half outside of London,” he explained, pulling back the curtain to glance out the window. “I can’t tell you if it has all the amenities you require, so I thought we could take a look ourselves.”
Penelope watched him closely. “Thank you, your -,” she whispered.
He raised a finger. “Ahem?”
“Thank you, George.”
“Why do you look at me like that?”
“Like what?”
He frowned. “Like you’re not quite sure if I’m sincere or not.”
“I confess that I am not,?” Penelope mumbled, leaning back in her seat, embarrassed. “I meant no disrespect, but you must understand what sort of enigma you are, in comparison to the rest of the Ton’s gentlemen.”
George sighed. “Don’t tell me you’re about to say I’m not as much of an Englishman as the rest.”
“Gracious, no,” she replied. “But you are…kind.”
He raised a brow. “Kind?”
“Do not take me for a fool,” Penelope quickly said. “I know you only follow through on the deal we made together. I don’t think men of the Ton would think to take me to the cottage.”
