“Don’t fret on my account, Duchess.” He stood and bowed as Daisy and Ursula left the room, each leaning upon the other.
Loxwell had not failed to notice his wife’s discomfort. He made a brief attempt at conversation with Malcolm, the worry evident on his face.
“Loxwell,” said Malcolm firmly, “there is no need to stand on ceremony, you know.”
The young duke rose to his feet, clearly much relieved. “I will only be a moment.”
Malcolm sat alone, watching Selina knit while the harp music lent the air a dreamlike quality, until she glanced up and invited him to sit beside her with a nod.
“You are very industrious this evening,” he said. “I feel a little misled. You promised me you would change my mind about Twynham.”
A shadow crossed Selina’s face. “I am afraid Daisy was quite distressed when she heard about Sir Roderick’s conduct towards me. She feels responsible for me, in a way, since she married my brother. I didn’t want to risk upsetting her by arguing over dinner.”
“And now you are engaged in something much more important,” said Malcolm, reaching out to touch the neatly knitted square hanging from Selina’s needles.
“A blanket for the baby.” She held it closer for his inspection, as though he knew anything about wool or babies or knitting. “It will be born before the weather turns warm again.”
“May I assist you?”
She gave him an odd look, as though she was not sure whether he was teasing her. “Would His Grace the Duke of Caversham deign to hold a skein of wool for me to wind into a ball?”
“I’d rather dance with you, in fact, as a compliment to your sister’s music, but I know you will refuse me.”
Selina took up a long skein of soft red yarn. “Hold out your hands,” she commanded.
“Like so?” He stuck his hands out flat before him. Selina frowned.
“You haven’t done this before.”
“When it comes to the domestic arts, I am a complete innocent.”
She glanced at him as though asking permission, and when he did not object, she put her hands on his and moved them into position, tilted upwards and about a foot apart. Her fingers did not linger. She was quick and practical.
She looped the skein about his hands. Malcolm held it taut as she began to wind it. “Have none of your sweethearts ever asked you to do this?” she asked, her eyes on the growing ball of wool.
“I am not the sort of man who has sweethearts.”
She stopped winding, sceptical. “That is not true. You know what they call you.”
“Do I?” He could not help but grin. “Go on.”
Selina clicked her tongue and resumed her work. “I won’t be responsible for your head growing any larger. If you want to know, you must ask someone else.”
“Did you do this with your sweetheart, all those years ago?”
Her fingers barely fumbled. “I suppose I did.”
“And was he an innocent, too?”
Selina crushed the ball of wool in her hand. She raised her eyes and looked at Malcolm, challenging him to retract the question.
“In the domestic arts,” he added smoothly. “What did you think I meant?”
“You know very well what I thought you meant, Your Grace.”
He could see the way the delicate muscles of her neck tightened with her anger. It was delicious to be able to draw such emotions from her. She, who prized herself on her poise, her restraint.
“Naivety does not intrigue me,” he said. “I would rather have an equal than an innocent.”
The mask came back down, hiding her emotion beneath smooth indifference. “No one has ever accused you of innocence, Your Grace.”
“I wish you would call me Caversham.”
Her hand brushed against his as she resumed winding the wool. Deep inside, Malcolm felt that yearning ache.
Her eyes were twin pools of glimmering black-brown, unreadable. “Surely you don’t consider me your equal, Your Grace.”
A lock of her chestnut hair fell forward across her face as she leaned into her work. Without thinking, Malcolm reached out, the wool falling from his hand, and brushed it back.
His hand remained there, cupping her cheek. His thumb brushed tenderly over the sculptural line of her cheekbone.
Selina’s lips parted. A warning flashed in her eyes, only to recede again when he did not let go.
“I consider you my superior, in fact,” he said. Forming the words was surprisingly difficult. His mouth was dry. Perhaps because he was admitting to a weakness. Perhaps because of the intoxicating power in her dark gaze.
The door opened and the Duke of Loxwell returned to the drawing room.
Malcolm dropped his hand, broke the mesmerism of Selina’s stare, and jerked to his feet, forgetting that the wool had fallen into his lap. He struggled to catch it, painfully aware that Lady Isobel had left off her harp to watch him in curious surprise.
He could not look at Selina. What sort of man went about caressing their political rivals on the cheek and begging to be addressed as a friend, after all? There was no explaining it away.
Loxwell, thank goodness, still appeared distracted. Malcolm untangled himself, with difficulty, from the fallen wool and managed to ask after the duchess with some semblance of composure.
“She is well, she is well.” Loxwell rubbed his hands together as though attempting to buoy his own spirits. “You must think me an overcautious fool, Caversham. But with her time approaching, I must confess that I…” He smiled ruefully. “I am a fool indeed. I always am, where my wife is concerned.”
“I don’t find it foolish at all.” Malcolm brushed off an imaginary speck of dust on his sleeve, if only to save himself from looking Loxwell in the eye. “I will take my leave. Thank you for a very pleasant evening, Loxwell.”
“The pleasure has been ours, Caversham.”
He took his leave of Lady Isobel in the usual way, but when he turned to Selina, found himself at a loss.
He was not used to losing his composure. How typical of Selina, then, to remain perfectly poised while his heart was beating a military tattoo. He
