The Duke Identity (Game of Dukes #1)(12)

Uncomfortably aware of the hot pounding in his veins, he jerked his gaze away. A mistake. For it landed on the rest of her, where her camouflage had apparently been the most effective at hiding her charms. The pink frock she now wore displayed her delicate bosom and nipped-in waist, the femininity of her form. The form that had felt delectably soft draped over him.

Swallowing, he reminded himself of how he’d been duped by Celeste. The one time he’d allowed sentiment and desire to rule over rationality had resulted in catastrophe. And the stakes this time were even higher: not just scandal but…death.

No, he wouldn’t make the mistake of placing his future in a woman’s hands again. In matters pertaining to the opposite sex, he would be guided by his intellect. And he would need his wits about him in order to deal with the troublesome Miss Todd.





4





“Good evening, Grandpapa,” Tessa said.

“Don’t you Grandpapa me,” her grandfather grumbled as he held his cheek out for her kiss. “Ought to turn you o’er my knee, missy, make sure you don’t sit pretty for a week.”

Tessa kept her smile bright. She wasn’t at all afraid of her grandfather, who was all bark and no bite, at least when it came to her. When it came to Mr. Bennett, however, she hadn’t been quite as confident. Not wanting to leave him alone with her overprotective grandparent, she’d changed as quickly as possible.

Studying Mr. Bennett, who stood next to her grandpapa, Tessa was relieved that he appeared his strapping self. Not that she’d been truly worried: after the way he’d charged to her aid, taking brutes down left and right, Bennett was clearly a man who could take care of himself.

A hero who’d come to her rescue.

She’d so rarely had anyone in her corner. A foreign, heady feeling came over her, as if she’d imbibed champagne. When he bowed, an unruly lock of dark hair slid onto his brow; she had the strangest desire to sweep it off with her fingertips.

To hide her reaction, she curtsied and smiled at him. “All in one piece, I see.”

“Why wouldn’t I be, Miss Todd?”

At his emotionless tone, her smile faltered. His expression was polite yet not exactly warm. Behind the lenses, his intelligent brown eyes were scrutinizing her. In a flash, she recalled how he’d initially watched her at the Hare and Hounds, as if she were an insect under a magnifying glass, and he wasn’t entirely approving of the species.

Truth be told, she was no stranger to rejection. Although she loved her father, he’d always treated her like a minor nuisance: a fly he ignored until it became too annoying and he had to do something about it. Worse yet, there was her experience at Old Southbridge’s Vault of Horrors.

She’d attended under the alias of Miss Theresa Smith, the “distant niece” of one Baroness von Friesing, an impoverished noblewoman whom Grandpapa had employed to be her sponsor. Her tomboyish ways and lack of social polish had made her an outcast from the start.

Lady Hyacinth Tipping’s honey-soaked tones rang in her head. What a delicate bosom you have, Miss Smith.

I don’t have my lorgnette. Miss Sarah St. John (Hyacinth’s lackey) had a brittle laugh that plunged into one like a shard of glass. I’m afraid one can’t see her bosom without them.

Perhaps, my dear, if you water them, Lady Jane Perrin (lackey number two) said archly, they might grow?

Tessa fought the urge to cross her arms over the part of herself—one of many—that her peers had mercilessly ridiculed. While Ming had taught her how to defend herself against physical attacks (she was an expert in the use of flying daggers), she’d had no shield against social weapons: the barbs, gossip, and circles that closed whenever she neared. Her attempts at retaliation had only led to further ostracism, and, as tempted as she’d been, she couldn’t very well throw one of her trusty blades at the problem. Although she’d left Southbridge’s years ago, her time there had left its mark.

She was quick to sense rejection and didn’t trust easily.

Bennett came to your aid, she chided herself. There’s no reason to doubt his regard or motives.

“It ain’t Bennett’s neck I ought to wring, is it?” Grandpapa said sternly, waving her toward the striped settee. “Got some explaining to do, missy, and you best do it quick.”

She sat, feeling like a wayward schoolgirl. Bennett took the seat beside her. His demeanor remained distant and cool, ratcheting up her unease.

“Well?” Seated in his customary wingchair, Grandpapa pinned her with a stare. “What ’ave you to say for yourself?”

“Does it matter?” she said. “The verdict’s obviously been decided.”

“You watch your tone, Thérèse-Marie. Ain’t got patience for your lip.”

The fact that Grandpapa was using her full name did not bode well. Since he’d first come into her life when she was four, he’d insisted that any granddaughter of his ought to have a proper English name. He’d christened her “Tessa,” and she’d adored his pet name almost as much as the other name he’d given her: Black.

“I wasn’t giving you lip,” she protested. “I was merely pointing out the fact that it doesn’t matter what I say. You’ve obviously decided that I’m in the wrong.”

“O’ course I ’ave! Got witnesses, don’t I, that you were making mischief in the ’Are and ’Ounds, dressed like a bloody lad!”