Page 24 of The Taming of the Duke
Because, he realized, that her company was not a punishment—far from it.
Her company was a pleasure.
Chapter Eight
Catherine relaxed intoher seat, lulled by the gentle rocking motion of the curricle. Though she’d expected the ride to be bumpy, her companion steered the horses with aplomb and a firm hold on the reins—his long, lean fingers curled around the leather as if he understood how to assert his mastery over the horses.
And not just the horses…
Her breath had hitched when he’d helped her into the curricle—his skin warm and smooth against hers, his touch on the small of her back possessive and protective as he guided her into her seat…
“Are you comfortable, Miss Parville?”
“That’s the third time you’ve asked, Your Grace,” she said. “If you continue in this manner, I’ll be forced to change my opinion of you.”
“For the better, I hope.”
“I’ve little time for sycophancy.”
He let out a low chuckle. “I’m no sycophant, Miss Parville, I assure you. If I were, I’d have spent the past hour extolling your beauty and charm instead of inquiring about your comfort.”
“And, do your inquiries about my comfort stem from a belief that I am somehow infirm and, perhaps, your mirth is as a result of my speaking for myself?”
He laughed again. “My dear Miss Parville, when have you been knownnotto speak for yourself—or, for others, for that matter?”
“I see not fault in frankness, Your Grace, if it can be utilized for the benefits of those whom I love.”
“Such as your sister.”
He slowed the horses to a walk and turned to face her. Her skin tightened at the intensity of his gaze.
She looked away.
“Have I spoken out of turn?” he asked. “Or, perhaps, you consider it a weakness to love another?”
“Love is only a weakness if others exploit it,” she said. “There’s no weakness of character in loving another—but the danger of revealing that love is very real indeed.”
“You speak from experience, Miss Parville?”
She closed her eyes, but his closeness—the intoxicating, masculine aroma—threatened to overpower her.
Love may be a weakness, which often brought about a woman’s downfall. But loving Blanche enabled her to remain strong, to ensure her sister never suffered her own fate—the crushing agony of heartbreak and rejection.
Catherine’s own heartbreak had taught her resilience against flattery—but the sharp-witted barbs of her companion were weapons of a very different sort, for they threatened to breach her armor, corroding the hard surface to reveal her soul.
A warm hand covered hers.
“Forgive me, Miss Parville. I fear I’ve spoken out of turn.”
She turned to see regret and concern in his eyes—not a fear that he’d diminished her opinion of him, but a genuine concern for her.
It was a look she had almost never seen in her life—as if his heart called to hers, weaving a spell to bind them together.
She blinked and broke the spell.
“I would be disappointed in Your Grace if you were incapable of speakingout of turn,” she said.
He smiled, and a light danced in his eyes.
