Page 26 of The Duke’s Defiant Love

"I suppose I ought to warn you," he said, "that I have begun making observations of my own."

"Have you?"

"Several."

"That sounds dangerous."

"For whom?"

"For me, presumably."

"Why?"

"Because you seem to have developed the unfortunate habit of noticing things."

His smile deepened. "Only about you."

The answer was so quietly delivered that Amelia forgot her next retort.

She looked away first.

Sebastian, evidently pleased with himself, leaned back. She glanced toward her mother, still stubbornly occupied with her untouched embroidery, and lowered her voice slightly, though there was no genuine need to. "I confess I did not expect this."

"Expect what?"

"This." She gestured, somewhat helplessly, at the whole of the afternoon, the scattered papers, the empty basket, the sun sinking toward the river in a manner that suggested hours had passed rather than the single one she'd braced herself for.

"It grows late."

"It does. We have been here for hours." He did not move to rise, and neither, she noticed, did she. "I ought to see you and your mother home before the light goes entirely."

"You ought to, yes."

Amelia found herself unwilling to be the one who ended it first, some reckless, unfamiliar part of her wishing the argument might simply continue, endlessly, rather than surrender to the ordinary business of carriages and goodbyes.

"There is a great deal more to say on the matter of Herodotus," she said finally, reaching for the excuse the way she might reach for a rope.

"There is a very great deal more," Sebastian agreed, gathering the papers with far more care than the task required, clearly in no greater hurry than she was to conclude it. "I do not believe an afternoon has settled it satisfactorily."

"No. I do not believe it has either."

"Perhaps another occasion, then, better suited to a proper conclusion."

"Perhaps," she said, and felt her mother's attention sharpen even more before she'd finished the word.For once, Amelia did not entirely mind being watched, so long as it meant she might have this again—whatever this was, however careful they were both pretending to be about naming it.

CHAPTER EIGHT

The ballroom at Ashvale was already crowded by the time Amelia arrived.

Light spilled from three enormous chandeliers, catching on crystal and gilt until the whole room seemed to shimmer whenever anyone moved. Music drifted from the musicians' gallery above, lively enough to encourage dancing and gentle enough to permit conversation between sets, while servants moved steadily through the crowd with trays of champagne and sugared fruit.

Amelia paused at the top of the staircase for no more than a moment.

She told herself she was surveying the room.

Her gaze traveled across the ballroom almost despite her intention, moving from one familiar face to another, searching the clusters of gentlemen near the card tables, the ladies gathered beside the windows, the older matrons stationed strategically where they could observe everyone without appearing to do so.

No dark chestnut hair. No unmistakable height. No composed figure standing slightly apart from the rest of society as though he had been invited under protest.