Page 3 of Look at Her Duke
Amelia could admit that not everyone was as animal-obsessed as she was, but she couldn’t imagine a more perfect response. She had to swallow and force herself to focus. “Aye—I mean, yes. Becky—short for Lady Rebecca Marie Skye Kincaid, by the way—is a Shanghai white. She is a fancy breed, and a brilliant layer.” She scratched beneath Becky’s chin. “Yes you are.” Grinning impishly, she met Kipling’s amused gaze once more. “And she’smuchbetter company than her brother Charles.”
“As evidenced by the facthe’sno’ here, tucked beneath yer arm as ye go strolling.”
Strolling, indeed. As if she hadn’t heard from the upstairs maid, who heard it from Rocky, who’d heard it from the butler, that Kipling would be visiting today, and thus had been lingering here in the hall all morning.
But he was staring at her expectantly, and Amelia was at a loss for words. How to explain she’d been stalking the corridor ofher brother’s study for a month, hoping for a glimpse of the man she’d once been so in love with she thought she’d explode from it?
Oh, to be a seventeen-year-old, angst-driven, silly lass again.
She’d doodled “Mrs. Kipling Mancheste” all over one of her books of poetry until her sister had discovered it and tossed it in the waste bin.
He is looking at you. Clearly he is waiting for you to say something. Anything!
“Becky requires daily exercise!” she blurted, finally, then expounded, extemporizing as she went. “I often allow her and Charles out in the cook’s garden in the mews. To hunt for—for insects and such.”
The Grin arrived again. “Sounds idyllic,” he murmured, his gaze caressing her face once more.
Was it her imagination, or was he leaning toward her a bit? How much effort would it be to press up on her toes? To stretch toward his lips? To give into the urges which had bedeviled her for two long years?
To squish a chicken between you.
Oh, yes. Becky.
With horrible—or perhaps impeccable—timing, Rocky the footman chose that moment to wander by. “Morning, Your Grace. Morning, Lady Whichever. Need me to pick up anything?”
Amelia cleared her throat and straightened her spine. “No, thank you, Rocky. Carry on.”
“Ta, cheers.” The huge oaf tugged his forelock—or where he likely thought his forelock was—and strolled on.
She had to stifle her giggle.
“Lady Whichever?” Kipling murmured, clearly noticing the attempted giggle.
“He cannot keep Amanda and me straight. We have found it’s easier not to task his few braincells.”
Kipling had stepped away from her—and Becky—when Rocky had come into sight, and now he straightened his cuffs. “And he regularly picks things up for ye?”
Ah. Amelia felt her cheeks heating. “It is…mainly a game Amanda plays to irritate the butler, Hiro.” She played it too, but she wasn’t going to admit that right now. “She…drops things.”
“For Rocky to pick up? Does he no’ have better things to do?”
Oh Lord. Rather be hanged for a sheep than a lamb. Cheeks blazing, Amelia pretended great interest in smoothing down the ruff of black feathers behind Becky’s head. “Rocky has a remarkably toned rear end, Your—sir.”
To her surprise, Kipling burst into laughter.
She peeked up at him and couldn’t help her smile. Kipling’s laughter was whole-hearted, coming not just from his mouth, but from his chest and his heart as well. He was the kind of man who made you want to laugh with him.
So really, howcouldshe help her smile?
“Lady Amelia,” he suddenly said, scooping up her free hand, chuckles still shaking his shoulders. “Thank ye.” As he bent over her hand, his gaze twinkled up at her. “I’ve convinced yer brother to attend the Stallings’ ball tonight, which my—well, it doesnae matter. I’ll be there, and I need some troops at my back. Alistair, Fawkes, Thorne…and ye?”
He was holding her gaze, his thumb rubbing the back of her hand.
Was he…asking her to attend a ball? With him?
Oh Heavens.
Oh, Heavens and angels and archangels and all the Heavenly choir and clouds and the Pearly Gates and whatever else went on up there.
