Page 16 of It's In The Duke's Kiss
“My hair?”
“It’s down,” he said, matter-of-fact.
Emma’s hand went self-consciously to her hair.
“I like her hair down,” Blackbourne said in a deep voice, moving so close to her that his heat caressed her. She felt oddly comforted, both by his nearness and his defense of her.
“Do you?” his great-uncle asked as the dinner bell rang. “I confess that takes me by surprise, but I suppose Adelia and my sister were correct, after all.”
His Grace scowled at his great-uncle. “Correct about what?”
“Danby!” the duchess called. “Come, you must walk me into dinner beside Lord Winthorp and Lady Francine. Nathaniel, you escort Lady Emmaline, and Blackbourne, you escort Lady Mary. And of course, Albersey shall see to his wife. Oh, lovely, our other guests have arrived,” the duchess exclaimed as she strolled out of the room.
Nathan came up beside Emma and proffered his arm. As she took it, he leaned toward her and whispered in her ear, “I’ve wondered every day since we ice-skated if I’d feel that same spark that I felt that day I held your hand on the ice.”
Emma glanced swiftly around them to ensure no one had overheard his words, but everyone was moving out of the room, leaving them alone. Ahead of them, Blackbourne held her sister’s arm. Mary was talking to him, but the duke glanced back at Emma and Nathan and gave his brother a long, dark look.
Emma felt the urge to giggle. Instead, she turned her face up to Nathan. “And what is the verdict?”
He threw his head back and laughed, and though it did please Emma immensely that she’d been able to cause him such merriment, she found her gaze drawn to the doorway through which the duke was disappearing. After a departing glance, he was gone.
She gritted her teeth. Did the duke think Nathan would compromise her here and now, or did he simply not like his brother? Or maybe it was her that he didn’t care for. His response was curious.
“I vow you could cause a man to fight a duel for the honor of holding your hand.”
The declaration left her feeling oddly flat. “What of the honor of knowing my mind?”
For a breath, he appeared perplexed, but then a lazy smile spread across his face and his golden eyes shone a tad brighter. “For the honor of knowing your thoughts were of me, I’d go to war.”
She grinned. It was a near-perfect answer. “Lucky for you, there’s no need to do battle. I think the tradition for two people to get to know each other is for one person to call on the other.” That was a big, very bold hint, and she held her breath, praying he took it and that she was not, in fact, being foolish.
He smiled and opened his mouth to respond, but a throat cleared at the door. Emma glanced toward the sound to see the angry, icy expression of Blackbourne. “Escort Lady Emmaline into dinner now, Nathaniel,” he ordered. “You know better than to linger alone and unchaperoned.”
Emma clenched her jaw. Was the Duke of Blackbourne implying she’d try to trap his brother into marriage? She glared at him, but he swiftly looked away, giving her little satisfaction.
Nathan gave a tight nod, but Emma saw how his jaw ticked. She understood completely. She often felt irritated by the way her mother acted as if everything Emma did would lead to something disastrous. The duke seemed to treat Nathan the same way.
“Shall we, Lady Emmaline?” Nathan asked in a velvet-lined tone.
Emma fixed all her attention on him and forced the Duke of Blackbourne out of her mind. She could not comprehend why she was pondering him so much tonight. It wasn’t like she cared a pence for him. It was his brother she hoped to discover suited her.
“If we must,” she said loudly. Much too loudly. She wasn’t sure what possessed her to speak in such a booming volume, but something had. “I prefer to stay here, but of course, we cannot.”
“Well…” Nathan began with a mischievous grin.
“Nathaniel,” the duke clipped. Then he marched into the room, took her arm—the one Nathan had been holding—and slipped it into the crook of his elbow. “Follow me,” he ordered his brother, as he led them out of the room. She rather thought he was ordering her, as well.
She glanced at him as he led her toward the dining room. “I don’t know what you think of me, Your Grace, but—”
“No, you don’t,” he snapped.
She tried to pull away, but he laid his hand over her arm and applied gentle pressure. “It would look odd if I escorted you into the room without holding your arm.”
“It must be terribly tiring to always be concerned with what people think of you,” she mocked, feeling peevish.
“It is,” he answered, his tone flat and lacking any hint of emotion. His hand over hers tensed, however, and she could feel his fingers twitch, as if he was struggling to hold himself together. Or perhaps she just wanted to perceive that it bothered him because it would bother her.
“Here we go,” he said, drawing her attention to the dining room.
