She swallowed nervously. “I would appreciate it if you didn’t . . . ehrm . . .” She couldn’t finish the statement. He would know what she meant.
The duke turned to face the fire, holding his hands out toward the warmth. It was as clear a signal as any that they would put their momentary insanity behind them. “I am just as susceptible to the strangeness of the situation,” he remarked. “I don’t usually do this sort of thing, either.”
Catriona fairly jumped. Back in the carriage, when he’d been intoxicated . . . He’d called her Delilah.
He obviously did this sort of thing with
“Where’s Taran?” she practically groaned.
“Didn’t you say he likely forgot about us?”
She sighed.
“Oakley won’t,” the duke said.
She turned and blinked. “I beg your pardon.”
“Lord Oakley. He won’t forget to find us rooms. I’ve known him for years. The only thing that is making this bearable is that he must be dying inside over all this.”
“You don’t like him?”
“On the contrary. I’ve long considered him a friend. It’s why I enjoy his misery so much.”
Men were very strange, Catriona decided.
“He’s quite proper,” the duke explained.
“And you’re not?” She bit her lip. She should not have asked that.
The duke did not turn, but she saw a faint smile play across his mouth. “I’m not as proper as he is,” he said. Then he glanced her way. “Apparently.”
Catriona blushed. To the tips of her toes, she blushed.
The duke shrugged and turned back to the fire. “Trust me when I tell you that nothing could give him greater agony than to be party to something like this. I’m sure he’d much rather be the aggrieved than the perpetrator.”
“But he’s not—”
“Oh, he’ll still feel like he is. Ferguson is his uncle.”
“I suppose.” She was quiet for a moment, then asked, “What about the other one?”
“Rocheforte, you mean?” he asked, after the tiniest pause.
She nodded. “Yes, although . . . Is he Mr. Rocheforte or Lord Rocheforte? I feel quite awkward not knowing what to call him. I’ve never met a French comte before.”
The duke gave a little shrug. “Mr. Rocheforte, I believe. It would depend upon the recent Royal Charter.”
Catriona had no idea what he was talking about.
“He won’t mind whatever you call him,” the duke continued. “He takes nothing seriously. He never has.”
Catriona was silent for a moment. “An odd set of cousins,” she finally said.
“Yes, they are.” Then he turned to her abruptly and commanded, “Tell me about the rest of them.”
For a moment she just stared in surprise. His tone had been so imperious. But she did not take offense. It was likely a more usual tone of voice than the one he had been using. He was a duke, after all.
“We’re to be stuck together for several days,” he said. “I should know who everyone is.”
“Oh. Well . . .” She cleared her throat. “There is Lady Cecily, of course. But her father is the Earl of Maycott. Since you were at Bellemere, you must know her already.”
“A bit,” he said offhandedly.
“Well, that’s more than I know of her. Her family has been renovating Bellemere for nearly two years. It seems a folly to me, but . . .” She shrugged.
“You’re quite practical, aren’t you?”
“May I take it as a compliment?”
“Of course,” he murmured.
She smiled to herself. “I don’t think the Maycotts plan to be in residence for more than two weeks per year. It seems an inordinate amount of money to spend on a house one rarely uses.”
“It’s lovely, though.”
