Page 51 of His Wild Duchess
“I hadn’t even said anything yet.”
Sighing, George turned to face her again, realizing that he sounded like the most stuck up aristocrat for no reason whatsoever. “My apologies, darling,” he cooed.
Penelope, seemingly annoyed after his attitude change, glanced around the study impatiently. “Have you seen Butternut?”
“The cat? Why?”
“She would’ve come out for treats by now,” she said.
George chuckled. “You trulydospoil those animals.”
Standing from her seat, Penelope began to look more carefully through the room. “What’s the point in having them if they cannot be spoiled?”
“I only hope you don’t carry the same sentiment towards -” George stopped himself for the second time. He turned his face away, internally scolding himself for suddenly being so loose-lipped.What on earth has gotten into me?
“Towards what?”
He frowned. “Well, nothing.”
“Hold on, now,” she said, waving a book at him. “I’d like to hear!”
Hesitating, George realized that the feeling that plagued him was nothing other thanembarrassment.He shuddered, unaware he was even able to experience such a thing. Giving her a thin smile that he hoped would cure his racing thoughts, he said, “Towards your future children.”
Penelope’s eyes grew wide, a burning blush enveloping her face before she snapped away, returning the book with a rather loudclap! She continued on moving through the room, acting as though she were alone. Internally, George kicked himself for saying such a thing. All that was left to do now was act as though it hadn’t happened in the first place. As the blush seeped out of her skin, and her shoulders relaxed, he allowed himself to let out a sigh of relief.
Following her with his eyes, George leaned against the desk, a smirk crawling across his face as she peered through drawers. “Well, of course,” he muttered. “Look through my things.”
Penelope shot him a look over her shoulder. “You know I’m looking for the cat.”
“Sure, but -”
“Can’t you be a gentleman and help me look?”
George let out a laugh, but left his spot at the desk. “Nowyou want a gentleman.”
Ignoring his comment, Penelope kept on looking, turning her attention to the desk now that George had left it. He turned towards the shelves, pushing back books to see if the cat had managed to make a nest in the small, cool space between the volumes and the wall. As he stuck his arm through the crevice, feeling around but returning with nothing, he glanced over at Penelope, whose attention had been caught by the papers scattered over the desk rather than its drawers and hiding spots.
He felt rather vulnerable, in that moment, despite there being nothing there that needed to remain secret. It was rather just the idea of her gaze looking over his handwriting, her hands grazing over the things he had touched moments ago, that brought something intrinsically emotional out from within him.
George cleared his throat loudly. “Find something interesting?”
“Oh,” Penelope breathed, jumping about a foot in the air as though she forgot he was there in the first place. “Forgive me, George.”
“Don’t be silly. They’re only letters.”
A pink blush covered the bridge of her freckled nose. “You have been speaking to Mr. Fitzburgh?”
“I have,” he replied. “A kind man, just as you said. He is quite interested in Vaun.”
“I’m not surprised! We must invite him for tea.”
George eyed her as he approached the desk. “I didn’t take you for a tea-inviting lady.”
“I suppose I’m not,” Penelope said. “But Mr. Fitzburgh is the reason why I have Fiona. I’d throw him a ball if I could.”
Watching her, George felt a flare of jealousy within him, despite never having met the man before. Not only that, but she had explained her single reason for adoring the gentleman plenty of times already: her mare, Fiona. Without Mr. Fitzburgh, she wouldn’t have had the steed at all. Despite that, he wanted nothing more than to crumple up his letter to the man, and find another way to get himself a foothold at the racetracks.
Derailed and confused at his sudden burst of jealousy, George moved to the drawers within the desk, wanting nothing more than to stop talking about how grand of a man Mr. Fitzburgh was. As his hand wrapped around a drawer handle, a soft sound came from within.
