Duke of Thorns (Heiress Games 1) (16 page)

Thorington turned his green eyes upon her, with a look that said he wanted to throttle her. “Of course Lady Portia could learn to tie knots. As a duke’s daughter, she might even bring it into fashion. But you, my dear, are a mere colonial. It would behoove you to remember that and not treat us to any of your provincial talents.”

His voice seemed meant to slide down her spine like a fillet knife. But she didn’t feel the effects. She smiled instead, ready to bait him further. “I should show you scalping, if you think barbarism is all we’re capable of.”

This time, unexpectedly, he laughed. “Save your scalping knife for Lucretia. Now, will it be pianoforte or singing?”

The mercurial nature of his moods kept her off-balance. She could never guess when he would turn cold or when he would warm up. But when he warmed up — when he was like this, not the man he warned her he was — she melted with him.

She couldn’t let herself think like that.

“Why do you care about my musical talents?” she asked. “They have no bearing on my dowry.”

“No, they do not. But they do have bearing on how well you are perceived by your peers. A proper lady should be able to play music at an impromptu party, produce a passable watercolor, embroider daintily, and dance competently. I can’t hope to train you in all of those skills before your marriage. But I need to assess your deficits before planning how we can make you into a lady.”

Callie frowned. “This is a waste of your time and mine. All that matters is pleasing Ferguson. And that duke, unlike you, doesn’t seem too particular about my skills.”

Thorington sighed. “I cannot begin to guess how Ferguson will decide this contest, save for knowing he would never choose me. Which is just as well, since I’ve no intention of saddling myself with a Briarley.”

She supposed she was meant to take offense at that, so she smiled sweetly instead. “Which is just as well, since none of us would have you.”

“That’s not precisely true,” he said. “But I wouldn’t betray a lady’s trust by telling you of the offer I received when I arrived.”

Callie gasped. “Don’t say Lucretia asked you to marry her?”

He examined his cuffs, flicking an invisible piece of lint aside. “I believe she realized her error. But she means to play to win, my dear. If you don’t want my help, perhaps I should secure her for Anthony instead.”

His threat might have sounded more serious if Portia hadn’t laughed. “Anthony is even less likely to marry Lucretia than he is to marry this one.”

Thorington gave his sister a withering glare. “Save your observations until you are enough of an adult to know when to share them.”

Portia didn’t seem offended. She returned to her music, humming a few bars of whatever sheet was in her hand.

Really, Thorington’s family was strange — perhaps too strange to align with. “Where is Lord Anthony?” she asked. “He is just as necessary to my plans as Ferguson is.”

He was also the family member she’d seen the least of, even though he was the most crucial to her plans. Thorington flipped open his watch. “Late, as usual. I had asked him to join us, but he must still be abed.”

“Unlikely,” Portia said.

“Have you seen him this morning?” Thorington asked.

Portia didn’t respond.

“Well?”

The girl looked up, smiling insincerely. “I wasn’t sure I was adult enough yet to share my observations. But since you asked so prettily...I saw him walking with Lady Maidenstone in the gardens.”

“Bloody hell,” Thorington said.

Callie didn’t know whether that was directed at Portia, or at the knowledge that Anthony had defied him. She tilted her head as she met Thorington’s gaze, striving for an innocent look. “How am I to follow through on our bargain if you can’t deliver what you promised?”

She took more glee than she should have at the frustrated look on Thorington’s face. As far as she was concerned, the man deserved to be thwarted just a bit. He had all but ignored her the night before, staying away from her before dinner, avoiding the drawing room entirely after. And so his note this morning had surprised her.

Music room, ten o’clock. I pray your singing voice is sweeter than the one you use with me.

So like a man. He had likely already rewritten the story of their conversation on the cliffs the day before to make her into the villain. He had probably told himself that Callie, sad spinster that she was, had mistakenly set her cap for a duke. He likely believed he’d been nothing but proper — that he’d done nothing that might mislead her into thinking he had some interest in her.

Men could believe anything if they put their minds to it. And Thorington had the discipline necessary to convince himself even in the face of overwhelming evidence to the contrary.

So she was just a bit too pleased that his morning wasn’t arranging itself precisely to his demands.

“I will deal with Anthony,” he said. “Pianoforte or singing. Now.”

Callie sighed. She thought of leaving; his tone had turned too preemptory to amuse her. But if she left, there was no better entertainment to be found in the house.

And she wouldn’t examine the fact that she’d rather spend time with Thorington than return to her solitude.

“Come, Miss Briarley,” Thorington said, in a voice he might use to cajole a child. “I’m sure you have some musical talent. This is not the time for cowardice.”

She knew she had been manipulated into action, but that wasn’t enough to stop her from reacting. She took the first sheet of music from the pile Portia had made — it was a Gypsy tune adapted by Haydn, difficult but by no means impossible. “Turn the pages for me, will you?” she said to Thorington.

He raised an eyebrow. “Forgetting the ‘please’ in addition to the ‘your grace’?”

He hadn’t mentioned the moment when she’d called him ‘your grace’ the day before. In fact, he hadn’t mentioned the day before at all. It was as though it had never happened. Had she dreamed how his face had looked, in that moment before he told her that he was an awful person? Had she imagined that he was capable of something more tender than coercion?

She shrugged, knowing insolence piqued him more than anger. “You’ll know within a few bars that this exercise is superfluous.”

He smirked. She exhaled, bending over the keys.

Then she began to play. She wasn’t a virtuoso. A former teacher had told her she had the soul for it, but she didn’t have the patience for consistent practice. Still, she was competent enough to play straight through the first sheet of music by sight without missing more than a few notes.

When she stopped for wont of someone to turn the pages, she found Thorington staring at her. “Will that suffice for the third son of a duke?” she asked sweetly.

He waved a hand. “For now. I trust you’ll teach your daughters better. They will be ladies when Anthony inherits my title.”

It was her turn to stare. “Why wouldn’t your son inherit?”

“Have you seen a son in evidence?”

Portia snorted. “Pay him no mind. He’s being overly dramatic about his widower status.”

“What?” Callie asked.

There was a beat of silence, then another. Portia flushed. “Did you not know…”

Thorington cut her off. “Another excellent example of why you must learn more about the ton, Miss Briarley. It wouldn’t do to confess your ignorance about such matters in the future.”

Callie felt like she’d been punched in the chest. “You’ve been
married
?”

“Yes. How is your skill with watercolors?”

She moved away from the pianoforte. “How did I not know you were married?”

“You should have read your
Debrett’s
instead of engaging in whatever provincial entertainments you found in Baltimore. It’s quite common knowledge, I assure you.”

She wanted to slap the amused look off his face. Instead, she went for his gut. “Did you have to force her into marrying you like you tried to force Lady Salford? You don’t seem the type to make nice to anyone.”

As his jaw hardened, she immediately regretted the jibe. It was an ill-considered joke, especially as she knew nothing of the situation. And before he even had the space to answer, her conscience whipped around. She suddenly felt sick to her stomach.

“I am so…” she started to say.

“Before you apologize for something you fully intended to say, know that I do not care whether you are sorry or not,” Thorington said. “At the moment, I only care about your skill at watercolors.”

How could a voice that calm make her feel so small? “I am still sorry,” she said stiffly. “It was unfair for me to make an assumption of your past based on your current behavior.”

“An odd sort of apology,” he said.

She shrugged. “You are correct. I intended to say it, although I didn’t consider how it would sound. Still, while you’ve told me that you aren’t a very nice man now, I should do better than to assume you were never one.”

He didn’t respond immediately. They stood only a few feet apart, with Portia there to protect her virtue. His green eyes sparked as he looked her over. And she wondered if the circumstances were different — if Portia wasn’t there, if Maidenstone didn’t stand guard over them like a prison rather than an inheritance — he might have closed the distance between them.

Might have shown her the man she thought he could be.

Instead, he inclined his head. “I accept your apology, Miss Briarley. Perhaps we can move on from watercolors and explore your dancing skills.”

“I’m quite capable,” she said.

That may have been a slight exaggeration. She had hired a dancing master in Baltimore, before she had realized that she would not attend very many assemblies, but she was out of practice. Still, she knew the steps of all the dances they were likely to have at Maidenstone.

“So you say,” he said. “But I think there will be waltzing some night soon. Lucretia means to have a ball for the local gentry. And you must be able to waltz.”

“Do you really think this is necessary?”

He nodded. “I had planned to watch you dance with Anthony. It would be easier to give you instructions if I watched from afar. But since he is late to our little party, I shall do the honors.”

Portia took the place Callie had vacated at the pianoforte. “I’ll play while you attempt the steps,” she said.

There was something suspicious in her voice — something that sounded too eager. But then Thorington bowed to Callie and offered his hand.

She curtsied on instinct. When she looked up, his smile was back — a real smile, just for a moment, before he twisted it into something else. “I knew you could curtsey to me when given the proper incentive,” he said.

She placed her hand on his arm. “Do not let it go to your head, sirrah.”

He squeezed her other hand, rubbing his thumb over the knuckles he’d threatened before. “You play a dangerous game, madam.”

Portia began to play. The music lifted around them and he pulled her into the heart of it, their steps perfectly timed to the beat of the waltz.

Callie had waltzed before. She had even enjoyed it. But this experience — the feeling of being held, surrounded, overwhelmed — was entirely different. She felt every brush of his leg against hers, every bit of pressure from his hand against her back.

The music swelled. She was no longer a girl in a borrowed dress, still slightly fatigued from her journey, uncertain in a new country. She was
herself
again. But she was the best version of herself — the confident, joyful Callie she had been on her ship during a sea battle, not the hesitant Callie she’d been when she had arrived at Maidenstone.

She made the mistake of looking up. Thorington was watching her. Their gazes locked, becoming a tether that was unbreakable even as they spun around the room. His green eyes had lost whatever hardness she’d expected to see there.

All she saw was heat.

He somehow pulled her closer. And still she didn’t stop looking — she couldn’t have stopped, even if she’d been told that she’d be condemned to death for looking directly at him. She was too fascinated by the man she saw lurking in those eyes.

All his outrageous words and mercenary schemes should have sent her running from him. But there was more to him than that. And none of his warnings were enough to stop her from wanting to see who he could have been.

When the song stopped, it took a moment before either of them remembered to separate. They took several steps in silence before he suddenly brought them to a halt. They stayed there for another few seconds — a few endless seconds, in which every emotion seemed to flash through his eyes, even as his face stayed remarkably impassive.

At least she remembered to step back before he did. She curtsied again. “Thank you for the dance.”

He bowed. “You are more than I expected, Miss Briarley.”

It didn’t occur to her until later that it was a strange choice of words. He should have said that she was better than he expected, if he was talking about her ability to waltz.

But she didn’t think that was what he had meant.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

After dinner the next night, Thorington realized he had avoided her for over twenty-four hours.

It felt like twenty-four days.

Of course, house parties often dragged on interminably. Not that Thorington had been invited to one with proper ladies and gentlemen in an age. Society wouldn’t trust him with their daughters, and he wouldn’t have accepted even if they had. If this were any other August, he might have been at Fairhurst, tramping through the fields and woods, talking to his tenants. Or he might have been at another gentleman’s country estate — some gathering of rich gamers and high-flying courtesans, with not a wife or debutante in sight. Either way, he wouldn’t have been quite so bored.

Surely it was his own boredom, more than any of Callista’s charms, that had made him want so badly, throughout the day, to see her.

He’d wanted to see her the previous day as well. They had parted ways after their lesson in the music room with an entirely proper farewell — and then he had burned for her the rest of the afternoon.