Page 5 of A Night of Desire with a Duke
As if to prove his point, there was a muffled thump from somewhere above them, followed by hushed voices and what sounded suspiciously like giggling.
"You see?" he continued. "We're as well-chaperoned as if we were in Almack's."
"Have you been to Almack's?" Catherine asked, curious despite herself.
"Once. Under duress. I'm told I committed at least seventeen social solecisms in the space of an hour, though I maintain that refusing to dance with Lady Witherspoon's daughter at the upcoming ball, was an act of self-preservation rather than rudeness. Have you seen Lady Witherspoon's daughter?"
"That's unkind."
"But accurate. The young lady has an unfortunate tendency to lead during waltzes and an even more unfortunate tendency to tread on one's feet with enthusiasm usually reserved for grape-crushing."
Catherine bit back a laugh. "You're terrible."
"I'm honest. It's a failing of mine."
"Is it? How refreshing. Most gentlemen of my acquaintance consider honesty something to be avoided at all costs, like debtor's prison or marriage."
"You have a dim view of my sex, Miss Mayfer."
"Based on extensive evidence, Mr. Wrentham."
There was something in his eyes then—a flash of genuine interest that went beyond their verbal sparring. "Someone disappointed you."
It wasn't a question. Catherine felt exposed suddenly, as if he'd seen through all her careful defenses to the hurt beneath. "We all have our disappointments, Mr. Wrentham. I'm sure even you have a tragic tale or two hidden beneath that sardonic exterior."
"Sardonic? I prefer 'mysteriously brooding.'"
"There's nothing mysterious about you. You're clearly a gentleman of means, traveling without a valet because you're either running from something or toward something, and you're so used to getting your way that sharing these rooms genuinely irritates you, but you're too well-bred to show it properly."
His eyebrows rose. "Fascinating. Do go on with your wildly inaccurate assessment."
"Inaccurate, is it? Then enlighten me. What brings Mr. James Wrentham to the Black Swan Inn on such a miserable night?"
"Business."
"What kind of business?"
"The kind that doesn't concern charming young ladies with collapsed bonnets and sharp tongues."
"So I'm charming now? I thought I was merely 'not boring.'"
"You're many things, Miss Mayfer. Boring isn't among them."
There was a weight to his words that made Catherine's breath catch slightly. The air between them seemed to thicken, charged with something that had nothing to do with the storm outside. She became acutely aware of how she must look; bedraggled, her dress clinging to her in ways that were definitely not proper, her hair escaping from what remained of its pins.
"I should change," she said abruptly, breaking whatever spell had been weaving itself between them. "These wet clothes..."
"Of course." He stepped back, though she hadn't realized he'd already moved closer. "I'll do the same. Perhaps we might reconvene for supper? In the interest of establishing our treaty, of course."
"Of course. Though I should warn you, Mr. Wrentham, I take my treaties very seriously. Any violation of our agreed-upon terms..."
"Will result in dire consequences, I'm sure. You seem the type to keep a pistol in your reticule."
"Two, actually. One can never be too careful."
"You're jesting."
Catherine smiled enigmatically and swept toward her chamber, calling over her shoulder, "Am I?"
