“Smoke!” That came out a bit louder than she had intended. Taviston looked slightly astonished.
Suddenly the murmur of voices in the shop died down and individual ones were readily heard by all.
“Did she say ‘smoke’?”
“There’s smoke?”
“Oh my God, there’s a fire!”
“Fire in the library! Everybody out!”
“Fire! Fire!”
Taviston and Victoria watched, dumbfounded, as the patrons of Hookham’s made a dash for the exit. Within minutes the shop was entirely empty. Even the employees had left.
The duke watched the last one leave and turned back to Victoria. “I was not overly fond of that crowd myself.”
Good heavens, had the dignified duke made a droll jest? Perhaps someone had slipped a little drink into his morning coffee.
“It would probably be wise if we left as well,” he declared while reaching for her arm. He propelled her outside the shop where the crowd now gathered in Bond Street. They stared back at the building, apparently watching for signs of the fire, in the meantime stopping traffic in the street. The noise rattled Victoria’s eardrums. Members of the crowd shouted at one another, trying to identify the whereabouts of the smoke or fire. The drivers of the carriages who couldn’t pass through the street angrily berated the crowd to move.
Taviston had pulled her slightly away from the crowd. For the first time, Victoria looked him over in the light of day. By night he was a dark, handsome devil and by day he was a bright, striking angel. The sun shone off his glossy black hair and highlighted his strong bone structure. That warm shiver of electrical heat ran up her spine again. It was a pity she would never receive a kiss from those beautiful, firm lips. He looked the classic gentleman in his blue coat, ivory waistcoat, buff breeches and black boots. Victoria couldn’t look away.
Finally, the duke used his forefinger to raise her chin and bring her gaze up to his face. He stroked her chin once with his long finger and then dropped his hand. He said with much doubt, “Did you really see smoke?”
She would have liked to stare past his shoulder, to avoid meeting his eyes. However, he was too tall and she was too short. Instead she addressed his fine blue coat, “No, I did not.”
“Whatever were you referring to then? Surely you have been told not to shout ‘fire’ in a crowded room.” He didn’t sound altogether too angry.
She protested, “I didn’t shout ‘fire!’”
Then she erred and looked into his eyes. Those smoky eyes. Right now, they were determined, smoky eyes. He wanted an explanation.
This time she addressed his simply-tied cravat and spoke quickly, “Your eyes remind me of smoke, only I could not think of that word to describe them. Then suddenly, it came to me.”
Not for the first time in their acquaintance did Victoria think about running. With mortification slowly creeping across her skin, she decided to act on it this time. She darted around him and disappeared into the crowd and out the other side, skirting around the numerous stranded carts and carriages. She eventually came out onto Piccadilly and made her way home via the long route.
She suffered a small disappointment when she returned home and discovered she didn’t have any books. But there was nothing for it. The last she remembered the duke had had them in his hand. No reading for her today.
She sprawled across her bed and contemplated how to occupy herself. Arthur dozed beside her. She had already done her correspondence for the day and finished a few sketches. Maybe she could sketch the duke—with his clothes on.
No, absolutely not.
In truth, she was thinking of pleading a headache and begging off from this evening’s dinner and entertainment. Then she could avoid both Louisa and the seemingly omnipresent Duke of Taviston, if he should happen to be there.
She heaved a dramatic sigh. Well, she was left with nothing left to do but think of said duke. His mood today utterly fascinated her. He hadn’t seemed aloof or unapproachable at all. This was a side of him she could like.
A knock on her bedchamber door had her scrambling off the bed and into a more ladylike pose before bidding them to enter.
Morgan, the Brownes’ butler, opened the door.
“You have a caller, miss,” he intoned with disbelief in his eyes.
She couldn’t really blame him for his incredulity. “A caller. Who is it, Morgan?”
“Her card says she is the Marchioness of Northfield. I could find no reason to disbelieve it.” His tone suggested he had hoped to find a reason.
Drat the man and his supercilious attitude. He should be in raptures to have a marchioness visit his household. But of course he wasn’t, because apparently the marchioness was here to see her, Victoria, and not the lady of the house. She was surprised herself that Lady Northfield had come to call on her, but she didn’t show it to Morgan.