Page 30 of A Duke's Keeper
“Unexpected.”She was everything she’d declared and more.
She was spectacular.
“Your Grace?” she asked. “Is something the matter?”
Even her voice was too quiet, too sweet, marked by a slight tremble, as if she were nervous.
He’d give Madam Clarice credit; her Ponies’ acting abilities could rival the theatre’s most popular debut actress, Miss Crim.
Why was she here?
Client confidentiality or merely not to ruin the fantasy, she would pretend not to know him, he knew.
A game, then.
Suddenly, his need to rid himself of her shifted to delighted anticipation.
“Nothing is wrong.” Renard sat back in his seat and shook his head. Her working here changed everything. “Please, ask me anything you wish.”
She blinked in surprise. “Anything?”
“Anything.”
Nothing was off limits, not when he had every intention of winning this match, and all the others to come. After all, who was he to say ‘no’ to fate?
*
Camille couldn’t hearover the relentless pounding in her chest.
She’d been sure the duke had recognized her. She had no mastery of fluttering lashes or coy smiles. Her imitation of Victoria’s staged character was laughable but apparently good enough to fool the attentions of an indifferent gentleman.
He sat back on the chaise, arrogance and entitlement like a second coat across his shoulders, though the hunter-green coat he wore made him look infuriatingly like a mythical satyr that could lure women into the dark woods with a smile and a rub of his bristly chin.
Must the man be blessed with such handsomeness?
Heonly saw a faceless bedmate.
Camille swallowed silent fury. All men were the same. She’d been a blind fool to expect more.
She lifted the board, inkwell, and parchment from the bed and placed it on her lap. As she ran the feathered end of the quill under her chin—embracing the flighty and innocent persona with ease—her gaze lingered on his face, when all she wanted was to smack the stupid grin from his mouth.
“Name?” she asked.
He smirked. “You don’t know? Didn’t you address me as ‘Your Grace’?”
The glint in his eye made her stomach uneasy. She forced a laugh and indicated the paper. “For the record.”
“Renard Leopold Louis.”
“Income?”
His brows rose, but he answered, “Fifteen thousand.”
“Annually?”
“Yes.”
“Connections to the Pony?”
