The Night Your Fiancé Sleeps — Chapter 11

She made no attempt to hide her displeasure.

"…Yes, I'd be grateful if anyone cared to accompany me. It would make refusing a little easier."

Lucas studied her for a long moment, then smiled with an unreadable expression.

"Voyeurism isn't a particularly becoming hobby for a lady, you know."

At what followed, Enya's face turned cold.

The man who had just hurled a line straight over the line paid no heed to her warning glare, only stretching his eyes into lazy crescents as he chortled.

"Glare at me like that and my feelings will be hurt."

"Then while you're at it, have your feelings hurt and turn me down, Young Lord."

At her icy voice, he let out a low laugh — and this time he genuinely seemed amused.

The wounded look vanished from his face in an instant, his green eyes glinting with mischief.

Just as a faint flicker of irritation began to frost over Enya's features at the sight of that playfulness, Lucas closed the distance by another step.

The faint scent of his cologne thickened noticeably. This was intimate enough to catch the fragrance itself — private enough to be uncomfortable.

Worse, the gaze looking down at her was downright brazen. It carried a strange, lingering quality that brought to mind the bad rumors that trailed after Lucas Whitmore wherever he went.

"And if I'd rather not refuse?"

The languid voice feathered against her ear like a stroke of down.

She swallowed a sigh. Then, instead of backing away from a man who was flirting with her in broad daylight, she simply lifted her chin and met his eyes.

Her golden-brown gaze was indifferent and cold.

But Lucas noticed the way the defiant woman's arms clutched her notebook tightly against her chest.

The more frightened she is, the harder she pretends to be.

The moment that realization landed, a peculiar urge rose in him — a desire to snap that stubborn stare she was leveling at him.

His warped temperament was exercising itself yet again. This time, in the direction of conquest.

He imagined the woman acting meek and pliant, and the corner of his mouth curved upward.

The face of a man thinking wicked thoughts was as gentle and soft as an angel's.

"I don't want to refuse you, Enya."

The familiarity with which he spoke her name tried to force away the distance between them.

Enya's eyes narrowed. She stared at Lucas for a beat, then spoke slowly.

"…If you don't want to refuse, then you should make yourself want to."

"How?"

By the time Lucas asked with artful innocence, the slender arms that had been hugging the notebook had loosened.

She took the notebook in one hand as if it were a fan, then pressed it firmly against Lucas's chest.

Rudeness, answered with rudeness.

"I was thinking of showing you a kiss with another man."

At the cheeky voice that followed, Lucas's eyes went round. Having confirmed his surprise at the unexpected answer, Enya curled her lips.

It was an expression remarkably similar to the one Lucas himself had worn moments ago.

"Isn't it said to send nine out of ten men running? I really ought to thank the teacher who taught me that method. Thanks to her, I'll be able to fend off a rude, persistent suitor."

The moment she finished, a pointed snort followed. Faced with a situation entirely without precedent in his life, Lucas could only stand there looking utterly foolish.

"Thank you for the Eberdeen lessons."

With that parting shot, Enya turned her back on him without waiting for a counterattack.

Lucas, who had begun to follow her without thinking, caught sight of the door closing in front of him and burst out laughing, belatedly.

"Haha…"

Then, unbidden, a thought rose in him — that perhaps he might become the one man in ten who stayed until the very end.

After all, even if Enya Campbell kissed another man right in front of him, it would cost him nothing at all.

With spring's arrival, the Pembroke gardens had grown all the richer for the scent of hyacinths.

Not that Raphael cared much for the heady fragrance of fresh flowers that swept in with every warm breeze.

But at least this year, he was prepared to endorse the Duchess's unwavering taste.

The elegant, pale-yellow blooms suited rather well the woman who had been occupying his thoughts of late. Thinking that she might once have lingered in this very garden, his lips curved up of their own accord.

Over the past few days, Raphael had been facing his fondness for Enya with considerable clarity.

The proof of it was the way he'd been trailing doggedly behind a woman who had begun ignoring him with remarkable thoroughness.

Of course, he didn't imagine this first taste of attraction to the opposite sex would have any real effect on his life…

And yet he could not dismiss the thought that he wanted to know Enya better. Until he graduated from the Academy, surely it wouldn't hurt to maintain an amicable acquaintance with an interesting classmate.

Once he admitted as much to himself, even the frustration he'd felt during those petty power struggles with Lucas dissolved naturally.

After all, I'll be married the moment I graduate.

Reminiscing on his duty, he walked on and recalled his conversation with Enya.

"Tell me who these 'good opportunities' of Lady Campbell's are. If she means to secure a better one, she'd do well to avoid reckless meetings, wouldn't you say?"

"Young Duke Pembroke, please limit your questions to the lesson."

Chuckling briefly at the memory of those haughty hazel eyes, he pictured Enya strolling through the Pembroke gardens.

The image came to him effortlessly, without the slightest attempt.

Much as one might picture a ring that would suit a woman's hand perfectly.

Before long, following the imagined woman's path, his steps carried him toward the tables — where a tea table beneath a canopy of pristine white lace greeted him.

The moment Raphael's eyes met those of the lady seated there in a cream satin dress, he bowed at the waist with a roguishly charming face.

"Have you been well, madam? It is a pleasure to see you again."

He was the very picture of an impeccable society gentleman.

Though the woman on the receiving end of that greeting set down her teacup with a distinctly unimpressed look.

"I was seriously contemplating enrolling at the Academy just to lay eyes on my son…. How fortunate that I'll be spared any pointing fingers in society, then."

At the elegant barb, Raphael let out a short laugh.

"You seemed so busy, Mother, that I was simply being considerate."

"And keeping ladies waiting is your idea of consideration?"

"Waiting is a virtue for the Duchess Pembroke. Do tell them it's an opportunity to learn essential deportment in advance. That way they'll feel anticipation rather than disappointment."

At the glib response, the Duchess's brow lifted almost imperceptibly. Wearing an expression strikingly similar to the one Raphael made when his eyebrow rose, she at last began fanning herself briskly.

"So you're saying my future daughter-in-law will find herself in much the same position as me?"

"I couldn't say. As I recall, I've never once neglected my duties…. And I imagine I'd perform the duties of a husband quite admirably as well."

"The moment a man speaks of marriage as duty, he is telling you he would be a dreadful husband."

Snorting, the Duchess only now noticed that Raphael's face was brighter than usual.

Her smooth brows rose once more as she studied her son's deep dimples.

He had grown up splendidly — more than splendidly — and had always been a source of pride. But for all his excellence, he was arrogant, and for all his arrogance, supremely indifferent to everything around him.

And now, showing up unannounced was one thing — but wearing such a sunny face?

Could he have taken a mistress?

The thought came unbidden. For an unmarried Young Duke, a mistress might be considered slightly premature.

Well, with the wedding so near at hand, perhaps it's merely the order of things shuffled a little.

And the Duchess was not particularly troubled by the prospect. Among the aristocratic men of the Darkel Empire, courtesans were something of a necessity — a luxury accessory — and so long as one was careful about bastards, keeping a mistress or two was hardly considered a flaw.

Above all, knowing her son as she did, she doubted any affair would hold his interest for long.

Having reasoned thus far, the Duchess belatedly gestured for Raphael to sit.

"As far as I'm concerned, you need only avoid being a worst son, and I'm content."

"My, how my standing has fallen in my absence — to the very brink of 'worst.'"

"Regrettably so."

"Then I shall have to redeem myself."

Raphael took his seat with easy grace. A servant approached to fill the empty teacup, and amid the fragrance of hyacinths, a genuinely convivial conversation began to flow.

Watching the displeasure drain from his mother's face, Raphael judged it a good moment to take his leave.

That is, if the name Campbell had not left her lips.

"…Oil, in the Campbell territory?"

"You haven't heard from Lucas? It seems the Marquisate is preparing to make a rather substantial investment in the oil fields."

Because word of the investment had reached Pembroke before the deal was even finalized, she'd been forced to write invitations she never wanted to send.

The Duchess spoke with a trace of irritation.

"Your father says that with the Marquisate of Whitmore's investment, House Campbell may well rise again — but no matter how you slice it, I have no desire to rub shoulders with that courtesan-chaser."

Raphael let his mother's words wash over him as he thought of Enya. Not because he now understood the circumstances behind her invitation here — but because he felt, faintly, glad that her situation might improve.

Yet his reasonably good mood sank sharply at her next words.

"Your father, and the Marquis of Whitmore both — they have stomachs of iron in that regard, I'll grant them that. To think of sending Lucas off as a matrilocal son-in-law to that house, of all things."

"…A matrilocal son-in-law?"

"Yes — Lucas is to have a marriage meeting with Lady Campbell. It's all over society already. The Count Campbell's mouth is nothing if not loud."

At the offhand remark, Raphael's blue eyes went rigid.

Unbidden, the conversation Enya and Lucas had exchanged days ago surfaced in his mind. That damned exchange — about kisses and marriage meetings.

"Then good luck at your marriage meeting next week, Miss Campbell."

Recalling Lucas's smug well-wishes that had trailed after that conversation, Raphael's brow knotted.