Page 14 of The Duchess Games

They watched as her sister was the last to reach the dowager. Any order of precedence would put her there due to rank. She might be expected to show embarrassment or self-deprecation. Viola, instead, used it as the perfect frame to a piece of unexpected but beautiful art. She had everyone’s attention.

Why then, was Callum looking at Cat?

Cat tried not to look back.

Viola curtsied, graceful, elegant. Not too ostentatious, not so simple as to be found wanting. Cat had not realized just how loudly a curtsy could speak.

The dowager duchess narrowed her eyes.

And then she inclined her head.

Impressed.

Chapter Six

Callum Winter, the eleventh Duke of Tremaine, had launched a turtle at a lady’s head.

At Caitriona Sparrow’s head.

He might not have Blackpool’s easy manners, but even he knew better than to toss animals at ladies or those same ladies into fountains. Usually, he had exquisite control of his expression. His every movement. It had come at some cost.

Cat hadn’t screamed or swooned or used it as an excuse to have him carry her inside in his arms.

Pity on that last part.

She’d only laughed and trudged through the pristine garden smelling like water and mint. Her dress had clung to her, holding her curves the way he knew he would dream of holding them tonight. She would be warm and soft. Smiling. He’d seen her real smile today and now nothing else would do.

It had been too long.

Too many desperate years pretending not to watch her walk the beach the few times he had returned. Pretending not to wait to see her walk past with her dogs, laughing when they pulled her into a run.

Pretending, pretending.

He was very, very good at it.

Honestly, he was suddenly feeling very fond of Bartholomew. It was the longest he’d spent in Caitriona’s company.

And goddamn it, that wet dress.

If he ever found that turtle, he might have a tiny, jeweled crown made. Or a dashing cape. Something to commemorate services to a duke.

He shifted. Best not to think of that wet dress. Not when he was under the kind of scrutiny that frankly made his balls want to shrivel up. Only thoughts of Caitriona Sparrow could compete. And long years of assuming a certain kind of dignity under the watchful eye of his mother, of the House of Lords, of the prince himself.

Speaking of competition.

It was too much to hope that she might be here for these blasted games. His mother would only have invited a village girl to pad the numbers or to exhibit noble munificence. Or, even more likely, she thought showcasing sophisticated titled ladies of quality against women from a fishing village would sway him.

And it absolutely did.

Though obviously in the very opposite direction his mother intended.

Nobody could hold a candle to Caitriona. They never could.

Hardly a surprise his mother did not realize that. She did not know him at all. A fact that continued to vex her. She ought to know him because he ought to be her creature: a perfect duke.

He had been. For a little while.

But they both knew he wasn’t anymore and hadn’t been for a long time. Not where it counted. He fought too many of the old guard in Parliament, agitated for change in the cold sharp voice he had perfected. Wielded shame and disdain like a cudgel. Just as he’d been taught.