Stone had known Westerley’s sisters for over a decade, for almost as long as he’d been friends with their older brother. He’d discussed dances, flowers, food, and even gossiped about various people in the ton with them. Hell, he and Westerley had taken the girls for ices at Gunter’s on several occasions.
Never once had he discussed anything of a truly personal nature with either of them. Perhaps he ought to have left this conversation up to Lady Tabetha’s mother or her sister…
Stone shifted his gaze away from her, focusing on nothing particular in the moonlit garden again. “I suppose he is mildly good looking, in a dukish sort of way. I don’t know how he avoids a crick in his neck looking down his nose like that.”
“That sort of thing is to be expected of a duke,” Tabetha defended Culpepper.
“It’s what he’s been taught. And just so you know, he is more than mildly good-looking. He is refined, noble, and… and… he is well-groomed.”
Stone could all too easily imagine the pouty expression on her rosebud lips. He’d seen it a time or two over the past few weeks—or a thousand times or two.
She wasn’t at all pleased with the level of diligence to which he was fulfilling his promise to her brother, but he’d be damned if she’d walk into a trap under his watch.
“Touché.” He grimaced. “But you’ve yet to answer my question. Are you attracted to him? Sexual compatibility is something all young women ought to consider before consenting to marry—even grasping little chits like you.” He slid her a sideways glance. “Because mark my words, you will be expected to lie with him. He’s not only going to require an heir but a spare as well.”
“I am quite aware of this.” She pursed her lips. “He doesn’t repel me.”
She had so much to learn.
“Has he kissed you?” Stone clenched his fists. Duke or not, if the blighter had, he’d be feeling the other end of Stone’s fist. Because she was a lady and she was not without protection.
“That.” There went that little chin again. “Is none of your business.”
But she was not blushing, and she hadn’t shown any other telltale signs indicating such a thing had occurred.
Stone exhaled. “So, he has not.”
“That doesn’t mean he won’t.” Even as she answered, Stone could see the wheels turning in her devious little mind. “He’s two decades older than me—nearly forty. And men hardly ever live as long as women. He’ll die soon enough and long after that, I will still be a duchess.”
“He outlived his first duchess.”
“I refuse to die in childbirth.” Again, with the arrogance.
“The bad ones hold on forever,” he pointed out.
She smiled smugly. “Culpepper isn’t one of the bad ones. Besides, what could I possibly learn about him from a single kiss?”
Stone cocked one brow. So naïve. So very inexperienced.
Tabetha twirled a finger around the curl dangling along her cheek. For two weeks, Stone Spencer had shadowed her everywhere—at the request of her overbearing brother.
A ride through the park? Mr. Spencer rode alongside her conveyance on his mount.
A visit to the repository? He annoyingly strolled behind her, looking over her shoulder. Always watching her with that knowing smirk.
Why couldn’t Westerley have asked one of his other friends to be her keeper? For instance, the Marquess of Greystone? In his fine clothing, with his haughty manners, the marquess never would have made such a nuisance of himself.
Or Viscount Manningham-Tissinton? He likely would have watched over her from the shadows. Mantis, as her brother called him, wouldn’t have felt it necessary to impose his beef-witted opinion on her.
Mr. Spencer, on the other hand, seemed to enjoy vexing her.
She glanced over to where he rested his arms on the wall, facing the darkness beyond the manor. Unnerved by his profile, her gaze dropped to his hands.
They were ruddy, calloused, rough, and looked as though he may have broken one or more of his fingers at one time. Even tonight, a fresh cut showed on the back of one of his knuckles, likely from one of his brawls. She couldn’t help but contrast them to Culpepper’s, whose hands exemplified his refinement. The duke’s fingers were slender and pale, his palms nearly as soft as her own. As they should be.
Nobility was intentionally removed from labor so that they could serve a higher purpose. Lady Agatha had drilled this idea into her students.