Dukes of War #1: The Viscount's Tempting Minx

Chapter Eight

Amelia clasped her hands behind her back and forced herself not to frown. She, who prided herself on always knowing everything, was unaccountably . . . suspicious. 

Lord Sheffield’s servants were forthcoming and respectful, and the viscount himself had neither abandoned her to her fate, nor was he looming over her shoulder. And yet she couldn’t shake the sensation that she was being evaluated very closely. Not only by him, but by his entire staff. 

The last time she’d called upon the Sheffield town house, she’d been nothing more than a curiosity. Now the servants stared at her with curiosity. Not one had taken their eyes from her as she interviewed this footman or that scullery maid, no matter how mundane the questions she posed. She wasn’t naive enough to believe Lord Sheffield was so impressed with her ability to plan a party that he now wished for her to plan his entire life. For one thing, the party hadn’t happened yet. She couldn’t expect miracles until she’d fully proven herself. Perhaps after Sunday. . . 

“Thank you, John.” She inclined her head to dismiss the coachman and turned toward Lord Sheffield’s butler. “Coombs, if I may have a moment of your time?”

The butler’s eyes widened at her use of his name. 

She kept her expression bland, as if she had not spent the entire carriage ride frantically flipping through all five journals to commit to memory the names and descriptions she’d managed to capture over the years. It was by no means an exhaustive list—she’d had no occasion to come in contact with his lordship’s laundry maids or private valet—but she had a fine start on a goodly number of footmen, grooms, and other individuals. The names she learned today, she carefully committed to a new shelf in her memory pantry. 

Desserts. Because Lord Sheffield was delicious.

She forced herself to focus on the task at hand: commit every detail of the Sheffield household to memory and then prove herself invaluable to the household’s future. It had become painfully clear that that the only future she wanted was one with Lord Sheffield. Had she honestly thought only a duke or earl would do? That selecting a husband was no more complicated than choosing an appropriate name from a worn copy of Debrett’s Peerage? 

A husband was so much more than a title and a lineage. A husband was an invigorating, infuriating, intoxicating whirlwind of wit and passion and adventure. She could not imagine spending the rest of her life with anyone but Lord Sheffield. To do that, she needed to show him and his staff that they needed her, too.

Lord Sheffield stepped up behind her as she concluded her interview with his butler. 

She knew he was there, not because his footsteps had betrayed any sound or his butler had so much as blinked an eye, but because her body simply knew when he was near. Her heartbeat doubled. Her breaths came faster—or not at all. Every inch of her skin tingled with expectation, hoping for his touch. If his town house were strewn with half as many kissing balls as currently adorned the Ravenwood ballroom, perhaps Lord Sheffield might have reprised the moment, instead of keeping a respectful distance and . . . glancing at his pocket watch?

She tried not to grind her teeth. “Late for your bawdy evening, I take it?”

The wicked glint in his hazel eyes sent a flash of heat to her core. “Eight o’clock. We’re right on time.” He helped her into her pelisse. “Now that you’ve met my staff, what are your recommendations?”

“My—” Her mouth fell open as she stared at him in shock. “I cannot give recommendations without proper analysis. I have spent the past two hours interviewing dozens of individuals and cannot possibly begin to speculate on reorganizing tasks and schedules until I’ve had a chance to transcribe the information they’ve shared with me and check each servant’s duties and understanding against—”