Page 4 of Duchess Material
After an awkward silence, the inspector shot Phoebe a dark look before addressing Will. “Just make sure she doesn’t go near the property again.”
“Of course.”
As the inspector turned to leave, Will held out his hand, a folded banknote in his palm. “And thank you for your assistance.”
Detective Inspector Holland stared at the money before he metWill’s eyes, not even trying to hide his disgust. “As I said before, Your Grace, it is myjob. Good day.”
Will stared at the inspector’s departing back and the door closed with a slam. “An honest policeman,” he murmured. “Haven’t met many of those.”
“Excuse me,” Phoebe said crisply. “But you certainly do not get to dictate where I go.”
Will turned to her. “Naturally. But I thought it would move things along if I kept up the pretense.” At her look of confusion, he arched a brow. “You do realize he probably assumed you’re my mistress.”
Phoebe’s mouth fell open. “What?”
“Well, you can hardly blame him.” He held out his arm. “Why else would you have called for me?”
She stared at the appendage as if Will had offered her a writhing snake. “But what if hesayssomething?”
Will couldn’t help bristling at her reaction to the mere thought of being his mistress. “So you were fine with being arrested, but that is a bridge too far?”
Her jaw tightened, which drew his attention to her perfectly pointed chin. “I’m notfinewith any of this. But yes, I find the idea that I would be any man’s mistress appalling—let alone a duke’s,” she added under her breath.
It was an entirely reasonable sentiment for a proper young lady, and yet Will couldn’t control the resentment thundering through him. “Then try to remember that next time you get brought in,” he snapped as the hot flush of humiliation worked its way up his neck. “And I’ll make sure to ignore any future summons from the police.”
Her cheeks turned a becoming shade of pink as she glanced down. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to insult you. I really am grateful.”
Will cleared his throat. Her apology made him even more uncomfortable than her rejection. “Yes. Well then,” he grumbled and held out his arm again.
This time Phoebe took it without resistance. She still smelled the same, he realized. Like clean cotton. Will stared at their joined arms for a moment before meeting her gaze. The corner of her mouth lifted in a small smile. “I’d forgotten how eloquent you are.”
Will frowned as her eyes twinkled with devious delight entirely at his expense. And to his utter horror, he liked it. Quite a lot.
Two
As the carriage pulled into traffic and headed toward her flat near Bloomsbury, Phoebe stared at Will Margrave’s commanding profile through the veil of her lashes.
No.
He could not simply be “Will” to her anymore, but the Duke of Ellis.
Your Grace.
When he first burst into the inspector’s office it had taken Phoebe a moment before she recognized him—though perhaps that wasn’t terribly surprising given how little she had seen of him these last eight years. And even when they had happened upon one another, he was usually too preoccupied with the pompous gentlemen and fawning ladies surrounding him to spare her more than a passing nod—and sometimes not even that.
His posture had been stiff and his manner imposing, like every other man who thought himself terribly important. Though she supposed it was warranted in his case, if one felt anything other than contempt for the English aristocracy. Nevertheless, the old and illustrious title he had inherited eight years ago seemed to have seeped into his very bones, snuffing out any trace of the cavalier young man with the lopsided grin who had once invaded herthoughts far more than she would ever admit—to say nothing of her heart. But then his narrow-eyed gaze had fixed upon her, setting off an irritating flare of heat as her mind caught up to what her body already knew.
He actually came.
The incident in the tenement house had unfolded rather quickly once that awful maintenance man Mr. Felton appeared. Phoebe explained that she was simply looking for her missing student Alice Clarke, but he accused her of trespassing and immediately found a constable passing by. Phoebe had only invoked the duke’s name in a last, desperate attempt to put the constable off. After all, he was the most powerful person she knew—never mind that they were barely on speaking terms. Still, Phoebe issued the command with all the outraged self-importance she could muster. She was fairly certain she even saidUnhand me, like a silly maiden in a penny dreadful. But her protest had done nothing. The constable just shot her an irritated look and hauled her off to Bow Street, muttering something likeDamn modern girls never know their place.
“How long has your student been missing?”
She turned at the question and met her reluctant rescuer’s eyes. They were darker inside the carriage, closer to black than brown. Or maybe it was just the way he was looking at her. A mediocre novelist might describe them aspiercing, but that was the only word that came to mind. Phoebe ignored the answering shiver of interest. “A week, Your Grace.”
“Don’t call me that,” he said with a sudden scowl.
She let out a short, surprised laugh. “Why? That’s how one addresses a duke, is it not?”
