The Day of the Duchess (Scandal & Scoundrel #3)(12)

Mayweather smirked. “He does have a particularly desirable title.”

That cerulean gaze fell to Haven, curious and lacking in recognition, and so honest that it seemed as though he had been seen for the first time. “Does he? Well, then it shall be a lucky young fisherwoman who hooks him so prettily.”

With that, she turned her back on him, as though he did not exist, and made her way for the door, as though she did not care a bit about him. As though she did not recognize him.

It was impossible, of course. It was some kind of game that she was playing, to tempt him. And despite knowing it, he found himself tempted nonetheless. “I’m to believe you don’t know me?”

She stilled and turned back, humor underscoring her words, setting him off-balance. “At the risk of sounding rude, my lord, I don’t particularly care what you believe. As we’ve never met, I don’t know how I would know you.”

Mayweather barked a laugh, and Haven had the distinct urge to push his friend right over the balcony into the hedge below. “She has you there.”

She did not have him. He was not to be had. “Your Grace,” he said.

She blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“You called me ‘my lord.’ It’s ‘Your Grace.’”

She smirked. “How did you know how thoroughly women adore being corrected by men? And over forms of address, especially. It is a great wonder that none of us have ever fallen in love with you.” She dropped a little curtsy, the movement making him feel like a horse’s ass. “Farewell, gentlemen.”

And still, he could not stop himself. “Wait.”

She turned back, beautiful and poised. “Be careful, Duke; I’ll begin to think you’re the one trying to get your pretty hooks in me.”

The idea was preposterous. Wasn’t it? “Your friends.”

She raised her brows. “What of them?”

“You’ve never discussed me with them?” Was it honestly possible she had no idea who he was?

Her lips twitched with amusement. She was making a fool of him. No, he was making one of himself. For her. Like an imbecile. “I don’t have friends; I have sisters. And I remain unclear on why they should know or care about you?”

Mayweather snorted at that, clearly enjoying watching him make a fool of himself. And still, Haven couldn’t seem to stop it. He spread his arms wide. “I’m Haven.”

She did laugh then. “Well, you certainly have a high opinion of yourself, Heaven.”

Mayweather laughed and Malcolm became annoyed. “Haven. As in, Duke of.”

There wasn’t an ounce of recognition in her reply. “Fair enough. Then I take it all back. No doubt as a young and fairly handsome male specimen who happens to hold what sounds a proper title, you must be careful. The women, they must positively flock.”

There. She finally understood. Wait. He blinked. Fairly handsome?

Who was she? Aside from being the single most maddening woman in all of Christendom, that was. She had turned her attention to Mayweather once more, dismissing Malcolm. “Good night, my lord. And may I say good luck?”

The marquess bowed low. “Thank you, Miss . . .” He trailed off, and it occurred to Haven that Mayweather was not so bad after all—if he discovered the girl’s name, that was.

A grin spread wide and welcome across her face, and Malcolm felt the heat of it like the sun. “What a shock. It seems that you don’t know who I am, either.”

He blinked. “Should we?”

“No,” she retorted, “I’m not heaven, after all . . .” Except she damn well seemed like heaven. But she was turning the door handle. She was leaving him.

“Stop!” he said, loathing the desperation in his voice. He could practically hear Mayweather’s head snap around to stare at him, and suddenly, Haven didn’t care a bit. Because she’d stopped, and that was all that mattered. “You can’t leave without telling us who you are.”

Her gaze glittered in the candlelight. “Oh, I think I can.”

“You’re wrong,” he insisted. “How else will sad-sack Mayweather find you if everything goes pear-shaped with Heloise?”

“Helen,” Mayweather interjected.

Haven waved a hand. “Right. She sounds lovely. Far too good for this imbecile. He’s going to need your advice if he’s to keep her.”

“I beg your pardon!” the marquess protested, but it didn’t matter. Because the woman laughed, bright and bold and beautiful, and all Malcolm wanted to do was to bask in the sound. In the warmth of it.

Instead, he offered her his most charming smile and said, “We shall begin anew. I’m Malcolm.”

For the life of him he had no idea why he thought it necessary to offer his given name, which no one had used in twenty years.

Her brows rose. “I don’t know why you should think I care about your given name, Your Grace, as I am female, and therefore already in possession of all relevant information pertaining to you.” She switched into an awed whisper. “You’re a duke.”

The teasing was back, and he loved it. She was remarkable. “Nevertheless, it is customary for women to introduce themselves to the men they intend to land.”

She tilted her head. “I admit, I have not always moved in such high circles, but I am fairly certain that it is not at all customary for a woman to introduce herself to two strange men on an abandoned balcony.”