Page 99 of A Murder in Trinity Lane
“This way, milady,” Honeycutt interjected, his expression solemn and unyielding, a clear disapproval of Steele’s actions.
But the duke was not to be bested. He lifted my hand and pressed a slow, deliberate kiss to it, never once looking away. The message was clear.
We’d crossed a threshold, he and I—and there was no going back.
Chapter
Thirty-Three
THE THREAT IN THE INK
As it turned out, Steele and I were not able to meet the next day. He’d forgotten about a morning meeting of the Legislation Committee to debate a measure on labor conditions. As it was the very bill he’d championed, it was vital that he be there to defend it. Nor could we meet in the afternoon—unluckily, it was one of our at-home days.
I endured the excruciating hours with a fixed smile and aching cheeks, all the while aware that the drawing room buzzed with far more than polite conversation. I don’t know when I first heard it—only that the words struck like a misplayed piano chord, sharp and discordant.
The Rosehaven carriage. Seen last night. At Steele’s door.
A woman stepping into it. Very late.
No names were whispered, of course. They rarely are when scandal is still warm on the tongue. But everyone knew.
Lady Rosalynd had paid a call on the Duke of Steele. Past midnight.
The gossip spread with all the precision of a well-cast net. And no matter that I’d done nothing truly improper, in society’seyes, perception mattered far more than truth. I smiled through it all, nodding and pouring tea, pretending I hadn’t noticed the glances—or the way Lady Effington’s brows rose ever so slightly when she asked if I’d had arestful evening.
By the time the last caller departed, my nerves were frayed and my patience in tatters. I wanted nothing more than to loosen my stays and?—
A sharp knock at my bedchamber door interrupted that fantasy.
“Come,” I said, resigned to whatever fresh absurdity awaited.
Chrissie burst in, waving a folded note like a battle flag before flouncing onto the settee with a dramatic sigh. “This arrived just now—from Lord Sefton, if you please.”
“Did it?” I asked, glancing up from the chaise longue. “A poem extolling your grace and wit?”
“Hardly. He’s asked me to save the first waltz for him at Lady Findley’s ball tonight.”
I raised a brow. “And you’re displeased?”
“Of course I am! He didn’t attend the at-home today, nor did he send a card explaining his absence. And last time he attended he barely spoke to me. I was surrounded by suitors, of course, but that’s hardly my fault.”
“Indeed. A terrible burden,” I murmured, rubbing at my temples as a headache made itself known.
Chrissie shot me a look. “Don’t tease. I thought he would be different. That we would dance.”
“Isn’t that what he’s asking?”
“After ignoring me! And now he wants to claim the first waltz as if he has every right to it.”
I sat up. Rest would have to wait. “Do youwantto dance with him?”
She hesitated. “Yes. I mean—if he weren’t so infuriating.”
“Then tell him so. Refuse the first waltz. Offer him the second. Make him earn the privilege.”
Chrissie’s eyes lit up. “You’re positively wicked, Rosalynd.”
“Not wicked. Strategic. If he truly cares for your regard, he won’t vanish the moment another man claims your attention. Let him prove he can endure a little competition.”
