Page 7 of The Scottish Duke
“Go ahead and open the door,” he said. “I’ll join you on the terrace. Let them fuss at us both.”
If anyone looked at her, it wasn’t so much in condemnation as it was curiosity. Who was this oddly dressed woman and why was she with the Duke of Kinross?
Her heart was beating fast. Her mouth was dry. She had imagined being this close to him before, but she’d seen herself being witty or flirtatious or so intelligent that her comments impressed him. She hadn’t envisioned being struck dumb.
“Who are you?” he asked.
Relief surged through her, making her knees weak. He didn’t know who she was.
“I don’t recognize you.”
For an eternity of seconds, words simply failed her. Did she tell him she was a neighbor? A guest of a guest? What did she say?
“Marie Antoinette?”
Thank God. He was talking about her costume dress.
She opened the door and walked onto the terrace. He followed her, closing the door behind them. The wind pushed against the impossible towering wig until she thought it was going to topple. She reached up with one hand to hold it in place, startled by his laughter.
“I’m surprised your dress hasn’t sailed you over the railing,” he said. “Perhaps it would be better if we went back inside.”
No, not that. People would listen to their conversation.
The rain began, coming down in a curtain. He pulled her off to the side, where the roof overhang protected them. It didn’t prevent the wind from dampening her face, however, or no doubt ruining the fabric of her borrowed dress.
She should move, should protest. Any of the other women in the ballroom would have done that. Or would they? Would they have remained silent, too, in favor of spending a few quiet moments with the devastating Duke of Kinross?
The light from the ballroom was pressed back by the storm, leaving them in a curiously shadowed world. Hardly proper, was it, being with him in such a secluded place?
“Can I be Marie Antoinette if I don’t speak French?” she asked.
“Why don’t you?”
“I’ve never learned.”
“A startling direct answer,” he said. “Are you normally direct?”
What a curious question. His smile was crooked and amused. It took her a moment to realize that the Duke of Kinross was well on his way to being in his cups, or as her father would say: soused to the gills.
Now she knew she shouldn’t be here with him. If he were any other man, she’d leave. She wouldn’t even bother making up an excuse, just grab her unmanageable skirts, find the steps leading down from the terrace, and flee as quickly as she could.
Instead, she stayed where she was, one hand holding onto her wig, the other at her waist.
They might have been two servants who met at the market. Or he might have been a cobbler to whom she was bringing a broken shoe. Not a duke and his maid, pretending to be someone else for a little while.
“I’ve never been asked that before,” she said. “I don’t know if I’m direct or not.”
His smile made his dimples deepen. What a beautiful face he had. She could stare at him for hours. Was he used to people looking at him? Did he think it was because of his title? Or did he realize it was because he was so handsome that others’ eyes just naturally gravitated to him?
“Who do you belong to?”
Another odd question, but she had a response to it. “I don’t belong to anyone.”
“Who brought you here? Who is your escort? Are you married? Do you have a fiancé?”
She really did have to make up someone now, didn’t she? Should she invent a husband?
“Why do you want to know?”
