Page 7 of Stolen By the Duke of Ice
His eyes scanned her, scanned the interior of the carriage and its contents; he took in everything that he saw, but he was particularly interested in the item on the seat beside her. At first glance, it appeared only to be a thick stack of parchment bound together by a string. The stack had obviously slipped out from its canvas bag, probably from the chase, but a few words written on the front parchment caught his eye.
Training his eyes back to her face, he studied her again. Did she know how expressive her face was? He would wager that he could discern the answer to her mystery just by watching her every expression.
“I already told?—”
“Yes, yes, you were headed to your friend’s dinner party. Which is where, precisely?”
“In Mayfair.” She sat up straight and held her head high.
“Mayfair is on theoppositeside of London.”
“We were lost!”
Above them, they heard Benson’s objection to her words. She winced.
“Lower your voice if you please, Sir; there is no need to shout,” she hissed.
“You alone have been shouting, Madam.”
Lips pressed tight, Dahlia drew in a deep breath through her nose. From the clenching of her fists, he judged she was holding in a scream.
“Are you normally so emotional?”
“Sir… Your Grace.” Dahlia drew in a breath. “Your presence must be needed in a very important dinner or meeting at this very minute. I am sure an esteemed man such as yourself must be in attendance somewhere—anywhere.”
“Now I am really curious to know why a lady would be out and about late at night in a disreputable part of London, alone but for a loyal—a trusted—servant with her.”
Dahlia’s hands were clasped tightly together.
“Could she be meeting a beau or perhaps eloping?”
“I beg your pardon!”
Her outraged reply made him very glad.No man… good. That is good for her reputation, I mean!That meant… and if he was right… well they would just have to find out. His eyes went back to the item beside her.
“No? Then that only leaves one possible answer.”
“And what answer is that?” Dahlia gulped.
Dahlia watched Peter as he rested his elbows on his knees. She felt her face heat at his unwavering gaze. In the contained space of the carriage, she was very aware of how much smaller she was compared to him. When he leaned forward, she had to lean back flat against the seat to allow a semblance of space between them.
Neither of them spoke, but the air was rife with questions and with a different kind of energy entirely.
Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Peter’s spoke.
“Are you much of a writer, Lady Dahlia?”
Dahlia could not speak for a moment. She discreetly glanced down at her manuscript, and her eyes turned huge as she saw that it had slipped out of its bag. It lay beside her for all the world to see. The world, in this case, was The Duke of Icedale, the very man whose character and physical attributes lay within the pages of the manuscript. Moving her hand over the title, she spoke hurriedly.
“Oh yes, what lady is not, truly? It is very important that we maintain our correspondence! One might say it is ourdutyeven! Why, we write so many letters that they really do pile up!”
“As yours have, I imagine?” he said with a raised eyebrow.
“Why yes, I have occasion to write so many letters but have not the time to actually send them!”
“I see. And those, I take it, are your numerous letters?” He gestured to the manuscript with his eyes.
“Indeed, they are!”
