Bronwyn longed to give a fervent nod, those words striking a deeply resonant chord inside of her. However, she wasn’t stupid. This woman had been married to the Duke of Thornbury for years before he’d inherited his dukedom. She had to know he was a spy for the Crown. Perhaps, she might be one, too. A year ago, if someone had asked her if highborn women worked as surveillance operatives, Bronwyn would have laughed, and yet, here she was…running sensitive documents across the Atlantic while trying to outwit a retired master spy who might ferret her out in an instant.
With a hand to her chest, she feigned a horror-struck look. “That sounds positively dreadful, Lisbeth dear. I couldn’t do without my gowns and my necessities for a moment. And share? Goodness, how awful. I can barely tolerate my little sister as it is, and Florence has her own wing.” She shook her head and shuddered, rambling on. “No, this trip was only bearable as I had my brother’s luxurious rooms to myself. It’s been marvelous. I shall visit Aunt Tillie, the poor dear, and then return for a repeat experience. The only part of the world I truly wish to see, my lady, is my future husband’s ballroom.”
For a moment—Bronwyn could not be sure—there was a shimmer of what looked like admiration in the lady’s eyes before it was gone.
“Is that all?” someone drawled.
Bronwyn nearly leaped out of her skin when that mocking voice came from directly behind her chair. She’d been so wrapped up in her tale of vacuous narcissism that she hadn’t heard him return. A cringe crept through her, but the pretense was necessary, she reminded herself. She did not need to impress him…only impede him.
“Your Grace, you move like a ghost,” she teased with a fluttery laugh when he retook his place at the table. “If you were ever to remarry, your wife shall have to put a bell on you. I know I would.”
“Oh, my dears, how lovely!” Lady Willington burst out, clapping her hands in delight, obviously catching—and misinterpreting—the last part of the conversation. “Is there to be a marriage announcement between you two? How positively delightful!”
They both froze at that. Lisbeth looked like she was about to split her sides with mirth, while the duke seemed to be caught in Medusa’s stare. A look of revulsion crossed his features. Bronwyn’s stomach dipped. To her dismay, she wasn’t at all relieved that her ploy had worked so well.
Squashing down her confusing feelings—she should be pleased, not dejected—she lifted her chin and giggled again. Did the duke just flinch? In truth, even she was getting sick of the trilling, high-pitched sound she’d perfected over the past year. One of her many suitors onboard had said it sounded like musical wind chimes, but she wasn’t so sure, given the duke’s constipated expression.
“Not yet, Lady Willington,” she replied in a singsong tone. “The poor duke has yet to have the courage to ask me for a dance, much less my hand in marriage. He’s rather shy, you see, and probably intimidated by the competition.” She leaned forward conspiratorially, her voice a stage whisper. “One of the men who might declare his intentions is connected to a prince!”
Bronwyn didn’t have to look…she could feel the duke’s disdain. She was laying it on rather thick. But the older woman nodded, eyes bright with the idea of being a matchmaker. “Thornbury, you should remedy that forthwith and ask Lady Bronwyn to dance at the ball. The first waltz would be perfect. You simply must ask her right this moment.”
“Must I?”
“Yes, I insist,” Lady Willington said. “Sometimes the most excellent match needs a little nudge.”
Bronwyn couldn’t quite hide her glee at the aghast look on Thornbury’s face. Would he say no and dash the hopes of a sweet older lady? Of course he would. The man was made of glass splinters and crystal shards.
“I’ve promised the first waltz to Lady Lisbeth.”
To everyone’s surprise, his former countess groaned. “Your Grace, I cannot dance because of my recent…toe injury. I stubbed it on the upper deck earlier this morning, do you not recall? It is providential that Lady Bronwyn might take my place.”
The deadly look he shot her would have felled her in an instant, Bronwyn was sure, but the woman only grinned wider. She could have sworn that Lisbeth showed no sign of foot injury earlier when she’d sauntered back to the table, her graceful presence making everyone in the dining saloon take notice.
“Very well then, it seems I should thank you, Lady Willington,” the duke bit out, his smile mocking. “Lady Bronwyn?”
She licked dry lips, watching those citrine eyes lower and flare before he dragged his gaze away. Bronwyn’s breath faltered, her flirty persona failing her for an alarmed heartbeat. Good gracious, did the Duke of Thornbury desire her? He loathed her, she could tell. He didn’t deign to hide how shallow and insubstantial he thought she was, but that sharp glint had been unmistakable. Her heart gave a silly, girlish squeeze in her chest. Was that why he’d left earlier?
Inasmuch as gratification filled her, dread followed.
No, no. She had to dissuade him. She drummed her fingers on the table, a nervous gesture that she instantly quelled.
“Alas, I shall have to check my dance card, Your Grace. The pleasure of my company is rather in demand, you see.”
“Quelle surprise,” he muttered darkly.
Bronwyn lifted an amused brow. “Why should it be a surprise? I didn’t think a fine, upstanding gentleman like you would be so afraid of a little competition, Your Grace.”
“I was being sarcastic,” he said and took a sip of his whisky. The liquid matched his eyes, she noted, a single drop glistening on the fullness of his bottom lip. Mesmerized, she watched as his tongue flicked out to collect it. What would his lips taste like? Coated in whisky?
Like sin and stupidity.
She needed to stop before she made a fool of herself yearning for a pair of lips she had no business yearning for.
“Truly the lowest form of wit,” she tossed back and turned her attention to the last course, smiling up at a still-blushing Harry who had delivered the plate with a poached pear drizzled in chocolate. “Why am I not surprised, Your Grace, that you would be so disagreeable? I’m not surprised that you had to take the air if your disposition is this bad.” She tapped her chin. “Have you considered whether it might be gout?”
“I do not have gout,” he bit out.
“I say, lad, gout causes constipation,” Lord Willington put in. “You have to regulate your bowels before your feet start swelling. Tart cherry juice will do the trick.”
Bronwyn’s eyes went wide, and she pinned her lips so tightly to keep from bursting into laughter that her teeth ached. Oh God, she was going to die! “Prune juice,” she pronounced sagely, despite the laughter bubbling up into her throat. “For the bowels. I understand if you must excuse yourself from our waltz.”