Chapter 3

CHAPTER 3

O f course, the blasted girl from the parlor had to sit next to him.

Thomas could barely control the rage coursing through his blood. Wasn't it bad enough he had to watch her and her minion flitter around his sister, most likely getting as much gossip out of her as they could? Now, he'd have to sit next to her for the duration of dinner.

He had been a part of polite society for less than a month, and already, he was done with it. His fingers toyed with the silverware beside his plate. He was meant to be productive with his time, not sit and eat five courses with people who wouldn't know what a good day's work meant if it bit them in the ass.

Thomas rolled his neck. He missed the dirt and grime that collected on his hands, the tired muscles that let him know he actually accomplished something with his time.

He would give anything to be back in the store and not sitting in this stifling dining room, forced to make small talk with idiots while this blasted cravat slowly choked him. He would thankfully balance out a hundred ledgers if it meant he could leave before the soup was placed in front of him.

"Ah. The soup has arrived!" Lady Staunton's squeaky voice grated on his nerves.

Blast it.

"It smells delicious, Lady Staunton." The sultry voice came from his right.

His hand tightened on his knife, his knuckles turning white around the metal. He refused to look at her . He had been looking at her all night, watching her as she and her friend circled Jenny. He lost track of how many times he had to talk himself out of storming over to them, demanding they leave his sister alone. But he knew that would only embarrass Jenny more, and after the disaster that was yesterday's luncheon, he promised to behave himself.

"White soup is a favorite of ours, isn't it, Your Grace?"

Thomas looked up and met the pleading eyes of his sister, who was seated across from the girl next to him.

"What?" Thomas took a breath, trying to shake off the curious glance from the slight woman seated next to him. "Oh. Yes. Soup. It's very good."

There were some snickers around him, causing his hackles to rise.

"My dear brother, you haven't even tried it yet," his sister remarked, her eyes alight with amusement.

That's when he heard it — a soft laugh from the girl to his left. Before he realized it, his head turned and was met with a sunburst. Thomas shook his head to clear his vision. He must've had too much drink in the parlor.

In the parlor, the chit was too far away for him to get a good look at her. Now, seated right next to her, looking into her amused eyes, he felt an unwelcome shift in his breeches. The girl had the most engaging eyes he'd ever seen. Brown on the outside with amber radiating like the rising sun on the inside. There was a heat in his chest that he wasn't familiar with and therefore did not care for. Forcing himself to look anywhere but at her eyes, he focused on her hair. Her blonde hair was swept up in soft curls around her face with a blue ribbon cascading down her back. Much to his surprise, her gentle features drew him in. He always fancied more mature features on his conquests, but there was something about the softness of her features combined with the velvet of her voice that intrigued him. He convinced himself it was so he could learn her tells — knowing your adversary's slightest movements could be the deciding factor in winning an argument — but if he were honest, it was out of pure, lustful interest.

His sister's subtle cough brought him out his trance.

"Miss Ambrose, have you had the pleasure of meeting my brother, the Duke of Pilton?" Thomas couldn't help but note her implication in her introduction.

"Your Grace, may I introduce Miss Frances Ambrose, daughter of Baron Lounton."

The girl next to him smiled and nodded her head. "Duke Pilton. How do you do?"

His sister's introduction brought him fully back to the reality of his current situation. Beautiful eyes be damned. It was his experience that the most beautiful were also the most cunning. Now that he had a name, he could do his research and find out what her angle was in regards to his sister. No doubt, she saw her as a way to get to him. Thomas had to swallow the bile rising in his throat. That's all these people care about — rising above their station.

Miss Frances' eyes bounced between his and Jenny's.

"Pleasure," he murmured.

"Oh, I'm terribly sorry," Lady Staunton interjected. "Where are my manners? I should have made proper introductions before we sat down. Please forgive me, Your Grace."

Thomas could only manage a slight smile before ducking his head to try the soup. Maybe if he ate slowly, people would leave him to his meal and allow him the solitude he craved.

Miss Frances leaned slightly towards him, and the smell of vanilla and lavender invaded his senses. "I, too, enjoy a good white soup. My father's cook has a secret ingredient she uses that makes the almonds pop. She refuses to tell me what it is though."

Probably almonds. The urge to roll his eyes was strong, but over the years, he learned the art of passiveness and aloofness. Draw your opponent in and fool them into a false sense of security. Two could play this game.

Thomas remained focused on his soup, hoping his indifference would persuade the girl to take her conversation elsewhere.

"I guess it would be more almonds," she chuckled. "It's usually the easiest answer that is the correct one."

Thomas could feel her eyes on him, and it unsettled him. During his time as shopkeeper, he learned the first person to cave in a business dealing was the one who lost. And he rarely lost. He has stared down some of the most menacing men, and yet, feeling those hazel eyes inspect his profile almost became too much for him. There was a growing need to pursue a conversation with her, if only to learn her true intentions with befriending his sister.

"Do you enjoy riding, Your Grace?"

Thomas breathed through his nose. Why was she still talking to him?

"No." He picked up his spoon and pushed the soup around.

"I do. We have a stable, and I used to ride all the time, but I haven't been ri—" her voice died away as he leveled a glare in her direction.

Her lips snapped shut.

He felt her shift away and return to her soup.

Good.

Frances was ready to tear her hair out.

She always considered herself a poised and perfectly engaging dinner guest. She prided herself in being a friendly face in the crowd, one who welcomed others and was always up for a good conversation. Her friends even joked that she could strike up a conversation with a tree and learn the squirrel's name that dropped its seed.

Frances pushed her spoon back and forth within the soup. She lost her appetite which was a shame because she really did love white soup. Blasted man. They only formally met seconds ago, and yet, he was acting as if she picked up his soup and drank from his bowl.

It seemed her father was correct if his dinner manners were any indication he was not someone she would like to be around. Her eyes drifted to his setting next to hers. He held his spoon like a knife, its handle resting on the table. The dolt probably doesn't know how to use a spoon. The thought made her snicker.

"Something funny Miss Frances?"

Frances used her napkin to cover her grin. "Forgive me, Your Grace. It seems my musings got away from me."

She chanced a glance in his direction and found dark oceanic eyes staring back at her. His dark brows furrowed over eyes that had gone nearly black. " Musings," the word dripped from his lips.

"I'm sorry, Your Grace, have I offended you in some way?"

Duke Pilton looked straight ahead, not even bothering to address her question. She watched as he slowly brought the water glass to his lips. Her eyes narrowed in on his throat, watching his cravat move as he swallowed the cool liquid.

Frances snapped her head back to the course in front of her. What has come over her? What was it about this man that had enraptured her thoughts? First, she sought out his eyes in the drawing room; now, she was watching the damn man swallow. She was starting to feel as if she needed to lie down; she must be coming down with something. She was not thinking clearly.

Her eyes caught the amusement in Miss Bennet's eyes across the table. "You must forgive my brother, Miss Frances; I fear his manners are less than desired."

Frances offered a slight smile in gratitude. At least brutish behavior wasn't hereditary.

"I prefer not to be talked about as though I am not here." Duke Pilton leveled a glare at his sister.

"My apologies, Your Grace, but Miss Frances did ask you a question. It would only be polite to answer." Frances watched the exchange with acute interest. Jenny's eyes were pleading with her brother's, begging him to be at least civil.

The Duke let out a heavy sigh and turned her way. "I must apologize, Miss Frances. To answer your question, no, you have not done anything to offend me."

Frances dipped her head in acceptance of the apology.

" Yet…" he snipped.

" Yet?"

Frances didn't acknowledge the soft groan coming from across the table. "I beg your pardon, Your Grace, but what do you mean by that?"

Duke Pilton leaned towards her, his voice a raspy, irritated whisper. "You can't fool me, Miss Frances. I saw the way you approached my sister as if she were fresh chum in the water."

Frances' eyes widened in shock. "Your Grace, I don't know who to be more offended for. Myself, for you implying that I am a shark, or for your poor sister, whom you've compared to a bloody chunk of meat floating in the ocean."

The Duke's lips slipped into a sardonic smile. "I concede your second point but not your first. Let me be very clear, Miss Frances; my sister is not here for your amusement."

Frances could only stare at him. Her mind raced through her time in the drawing room with his sister. "I admit to approaching your sister, with the proper introduction from Lady Wellington, but I assure you, I did it with the purest of intentions of welcoming a new member of society."

His snort stoked the fire that was growing in her belly. The audacity this man had to imply he knew her intentions without fully knowing her was preposterous. Well, if he could make snap judgments, so could she.

"Since we are basing our opinions off of our first and only interaction, then it is only appropriate for me to deduce that you are indeed a brute and an intolerable man, much to the agreement of your peers."

The Duke's eyes narrowed, but if she wasn't mistaken, she sensed a hint of amusement. It was then Frances noticed her voice had risen above the whisper she intended. Embarrassed, she took a deep breath to regain her composure. She picked up her water glass, hoping the cool liquid would quell the fire still raging in her. Glancing around the table, she thankfully only saw a few sets of curious eyes on them — one of them being her father's, and he did not look thrilled.

Well, the ride home will be interesting.

She knew what she had to do, and it was moments like these when she credited her station for allowing her to lie through her teeth in order to appease the ton . It was a disgusting habit, one she didn't utilize often, but for the sake of her father, she learned the art of the apology one doesn't mean.

She tilted her head to the space between the two of them, letting her eyes drop, hoping to give off the appearance of remorse. "My sincerest apologies, Your Grace. I fear I have spoken out of turn. I should not have said those things. I would like nothing more than to forget this and move toward a more appropriate conversation." She didn't want to look at him, but she knew that eye contact was the final necessity of a sincere apology, regardless of its truth.

Frances lifted her eyes, expecting to see acceptance of her apology in the Duke's eyes. Instead, she was met with blue steel.

"Hmph." His eyes barely met hers before he turned back to his cooling soup.

Frances' cheeks began to redden, and small beads of sweat were forming along her hairline. This is not going well.

With a deep breath she managed a smile. "Your sister tells me you were a shopkeeper."

The Duke sat in silence for a moment, looking distressed. "What else has she told you?"

"Only that your parents passed when Jenny was young, and your aunt took you in."

The Duke rested his hands on the table, his long fingers stretching out before balling into tight fists. "And is that not enough to satisfy your thirst for gossip?"

Frances felt her cheeks heat. "Your Grace, I assure you, I have no ill intentions towards you or your sister. The world is hard enough as it is, I wish only to be a friendly face. Truly."

He didn't respond; he just sat there flexing his hands. They looked strong. Capable. She could envision him lifting large crates and carrying goods from dusty shelves in the back to the store front for customers to peruse. Her heart fluttered. There was a small voice urging her back to her sanity, but all she could do was watch his hands open and close. Long fingers stretching before being pulled back into a tight fist, his veins pulsing.

Frances took a drink of her water. She felt lightheaded and hot all of a sudden. I really should pay attention to what they put in the punch before dinner.

"Miss Frances, are you well?" The Duke's words held a mocking tone as he reached a hand in her direction. She did not appreciate his mockery.

"Yes, I'm all right, thank you, Your Grace . Just a bit warm in here tonight; there's a lot of hot air about." She rose an eyebrow, hoping he caught on to her insinuation. "I fear the combination of that paired with too much of Lady Staunton's punch caused me a brief moment of distress." She needed to take her mind off his hands. They shouldn't even be on the table which gave her an idea.

"Your Grace, in my conversation with your sister, she mentioned her desire to be more prepared for her official debut. I had offered her my support, and if I may, I could call on her this week and help her adjust to this new life."

His hands stilled. "And what would you, pray tell, get out of this arrangement?"

Frances' brow furrowed. "Nothing, of course. I would be willing to do this for anyone in need."

Once again, a snort escaped his tight lips that sent all of her etiquette lessons out the window. Her station be damned.

"Your Grace. I could be of great service to your sister; this cannot be easy for her, and there are a lot of rules and expectations that come with living this life."

"And you are the one to help her?"

Frances nodded curtly. "I am. I assure you, I know my way around a friendly conversation and how to conduct myself respectfully in society." Unlike someone else sitting at this table.

He continued to sit there, his one brow raised in question. Frances continued on. "For instance, it is rude to sit at a table with one's hands on the table."

The Duke cocked his head to the side, taking her in. "What is going to happen? Are my hands offensive to the ton ?" he quipped. The hands in question moved about to punctuate his thoughts. "Ridiculous. These rules and expectations are nothing more than the peerage making themselves feel important." His words clipped and defensive.

Frances watched as his waving hand brushed against the water glass which fell directly onto her lap.

She sat stunned. A first in her life. If she wasn't dying of embarrassment inside, she would call out to her father to note the date for future reference so that she could, indeed, sit speechless. Her thoughts cleared when she felt a pressure in her lap that confused her. Was she moving her arms without knowing it?

Her eyes dropped to her lap, expecting to see her own hands wiping up the liquid. What she saw stole her breath. The large, capable hands that enraptured her thoughts were now blotting the wet spots with a napkin.

His hands. His hands were on her lap. His hands were pressing down on her lap. Blood rushed to her head, and she heard nothing but the crashing waves of panic in her mind. All she could manage was a small squeak of surprise as he continued to soak up the pooling water.

The more he dabbed, the faster her heart raced. She should push him off. She should say something, but all sense left her body. The only thing she could do was feel a curious pressure building within her stomach, causing an entirely different feeling further below.

She heard a cough from the far end of the room. Her eyes quickly scanned the table to find all conversation had stopped, and they were now the center of attention. Her sitting there with a duke's hands in her lap. Oh. My. Heavens. She had seen couples rushed to the alter for less offensive situations.

She took a deep breath and cursed her luck. She moved a hand to cover his. She had only a moment to register the size difference between their hands, how hard and coarse his hand felt, before he snapped his away. His eyes connected to hers, his blue eyes wide and unblinking. Eyes locked, leaning close enough for their breaths to mingle. Duke Pilton was the first to move, realizing the predicament he put them in.

"Miss Frances, I did not mean to spill the water on you. It's the shopkeeper in me that cleans up spills immediately. Some habits die hard." His voice was gruff and cold.

Frances was pretty sure the gasp that came from Lady Staunton meant this was sure to be relayed to every person in the peerage by morning.

Frances wished she could laugh the predicament off, but she was busy trying to regain control of her breath. This time, she could not blame her stays for the lack of air.

"It is fine, Your Grace." Her voice came out as a whisper. She cursed herself for sounding so mild when he seemed unaffected by their display. With a brush of her hand, she waved off his apology. "Accidents happen, and it is but water. It'll dry. We've all had mishaps. Shall we continue with dinner?" she asked, hoping that conversations would resume once they found out it was a mere accident and not a scandal.

The moment of silence was terrifying. Would they make her marry the Duke because of a water spill? Surely not. Hopefully not. Please God, no.

It was Nora's voice from somewhere to her left that started the conversation up again, saving Frances from further embarrassment. She made a mental note to send her friend flowers for getting her out of this.

As conversations flowed around her, Frances sat, processing the evening thus far. She felt the Duke's presence as he leaned into her. Looking over her shoulder, as if to call a footman, he whispered, "I truly am sorry for spilling the water."

His warm breath on her neck sent a shiver down her entire body. It was as if every sensitive nerve in her body was awakened with his words. "It seems my sister and I are both in need of your services, Miss Frances."

She chanced a glance at him and found his eyes in line with hers. Her breath caught in her throat, and the sight of his hands in her lap flashed in her mind. Once again, she found herself without a voice. She nodded in agreement, and that was the last they spoke that night.

What she agreed to, she could not say, but she felt it was more than just etiquette lessons.