Page 18 of A Bride for the Ruthless Duke

His smile returned, slower now, tender enough to be almost unbearable. “Then I shall remember it from the first time.”

“You remember too much.”

“Only important matters.”

The words from earlier returned between them changed, softened and made private.

He looked at her with an expression she had never been given by any other living person. Soft, fond, and entirely for her. Under it, Ellen felt herself go somewhere small and warm and impossible to retrieve.

A sound came from the passage.

Vance released her hand at once and rose. The loss of his fingers felt absurdly cold.

“I have a regimental matter at one,” he said, smoothing his cuff as if the motion could restore propriety to the whole room. “And I have already spent the best part of my month in this chair.”

“The best part?” Ellen asked, because if she did not speak lightly, she would speak far too plainly.

“Undoubtedly. The rest of the month must now prove itself worthy of comparison.”

“You flatter my morning room.”

“I flatter nothing in this house except its mistress.”

“Lieutenant.”

He bowed, and there was mischief in the bow, and something beneath the mischief that made her breath unsteady again. “I shall write.”

“You said that before.”

“And I was a fool before.”

“Are you improved now?”

“Immeasurably.”

“I shall reserve judgment.”

“Do. It gives me something to strive for.”

He reached the door, then turned back.

“Be upon your best behavior,” he murmured, with that quiet, teasing air she knew so well.

Ellen tilted her chin. “I am never otherwise than perfectly well-behaved.”

“Which is exactly what makes the matter so exceedingly dangerous.”

He bestowed his most dazzling smile yet again, the small private one she had never seen him spend on anyone else.

Then the red was gone from the doorway. His boot heels sounded down the hall. The street door opened, closed, and left the house quieter than it had any right to be.

Ellen stood in the ringing stillness of the room he had left.

Her hand remained warm where he had held it. She lifted her palm to her cheek and held it there, as if warmth could be preserved by tenderness alone.

Mrs. Dalton returned with the address book in her hand. She took in Ellen’s face, the roses, the empty doorway, and the hand pressed to her cheek.

“Well,” Mrs. Dalton said mildly, “the Frobishers live in Bedford Square after all.”