Page 19 of The Lion Duke's Proposal
He felt the pull before he had finished the thought.
It isn’t jealousy, he told himself.
He had no claim to her and no desire for one. But Stockhill was precisely the kind of man who would see Miss Norish’s situation — seemingly desperate, without family protection, without dowry — and read it as an opportunity rather than a circumstance. The kind of man who would be charming right up until the moment charm stopped being useful. And Miss Norish, for all her sharp wit and her stubborn dignity, had been so thoroughly ground down by everything her father had put her through that Leander wasn't certain she would recognize that particular brand of interest for what it was.
She deserved better than to be someone's convenient option.
The thought arrived with a force that surprised him.
"Lord Pridewell." Miss Burbank appeared at his elbow; her dance card extended toward him with the practiced confidence of a woman accustomed to getting what she asked for. "I believe the next set is beginning."
Leander looked at the card. Then at her. "I'm afraid not, Lady Burbank."
Her smile faltered almost imperceptibly. "I beg your pardon?"
"I won't be dancing this set." He said it pleasantly, with the absolute finality of a man who saw no need to elaborate. "I hope you enjoy it."
A beat of silence passed in which Miss Burbank clearly reassessed the situation and found no foothold in it. The smile returned, thinner this time, arranged carefully back into place. "Of course," she said. "Another time, perhaps."
"Perhaps," he agreed, which they both understood to mean there would be no other opportunity.
She withdrew. He turned back to the terrace doors.
Stockhill had shifted closer to Miss Norish, his shoulder angled inward in the way of a man trying to make a conversation feel more private than it was. Miss Norish was listening with her head tilted slightly, polite and attentive, and Leander watched her intently.
She wasn't charmed.
He could tell by the way she held herself, in that perfectly composed and pleasant manner, that she was enduring the conversation rather than enjoying it, with the patience of a woman who had spent years managing situations not of her choosing.
Stockhill, predictably, could not tell the difference. Leander felt irritation rising from inside him. The chap was more likely fortune hunting than anything else, hoping to get a dowry from Miss Norish.
Leander waited until her eyes met his across the room. He tilted his head slightly as her eyes found his across the room, just enough to let her know he had seen the whole thing. Her mouth pressed into a thin line, and she turned back to Blackwell with a composure so deliberate it was almost amusing.
Despite himself, he smiled.
At least she was never boring. The rumors in town had pegged the elder Miss Norish as a bloodless bore. A quiet, predictable creature easily overlooked. Yet every interaction he’d had with her so far had proven the gossips entirely wrong. She was sharp-witted, guarded, and fiercely protective of her sister. He had to admit, if only to himself, that he was thoroughly intrigued.
He crossed the room at a measured pace and by the time he reached the doors, he had seamlessly positioned himself to block the other man's path to Julia, projecting quiet authority.
"Stockhill," he said.
Stockhill straightened immediately. Whatever he had been about to say to Miss Norish died on his lips as he turned and found Leander standing there with the particular expression that Anthony had once described, not unkindly, as the one that makes men remember prior engagements.
"Pridewell." Stockhill recovered smoothly enough. "Wonderful party."
"Thank you." Leander let a brief silence fall, the kind that required filling. "I believe Lady Ashworth was looking for a partner for the next set."
It was not a suggestion.
Stockhill looked between them once, read the room with whatever instinct for self-preservation he possessed, and inclined his head. "Miss Norish." A short bow. "Your Grace." And then he was gone, moving back toward the floor with the dignified pace of a man pretending he had intended to leave anyway.
Leander looked at Miss Norish.
She looked back at him with an expression that was equal parts relief and irritation, which he was beginning to understand was her default response to him specifically.
“Were you observing me, Your Grace?” she asked, then turned around with a defiant gaze. “Or were you following me?”
“Can it be both? Besides, I was watching Stockhill," he replied dryly. "You happened to be nearby.” She laughed humorlessly. “It seems that Miss Burbank has caught your eye; shouldn’t you be observing her instead?”
