Was Aunt Marcheline really so desperate to be rid of her? She had thought they rubbed along well enough together. She risked a peek at the duke, whose eyes glinted as if he were enjoying her discomfort.
“That is truly a shame,” he said, patting Aunt Marcheline’s hand in sympathy. “I shall make certain she never lacks for flowers.” He cast a meaningful grin at Jilly. “Or company.”
She bared her teeth in a feral smile. “That is hardly necessary, Your Grace. I am quite content with my own company.”
“But, Jillian,” Marcheline said, “you are near to three and twenty. You cannot afford to thumb your nose at suitors. Why, ever since Lord Kirkland—”
“Aunt.” Jillian’s voice snapped with such a depth of fury that even the redoubtable Marcheline lapsed into an awkward silence. Her brows arched to her hairline, Aunt Marcheline patted at her graying hair and took her place upon the sofa.
“Will you sit, Your Grace?” Marcheline inquired, gesturing to an unoccupied chair. “We have just sat down to tea. Jillian would be happy to pour.”
Jillian would indeed be happy to pour—straight onto His Most Noble Grace’s arrogant head. Instead she leashed her rage, grabbed for the teapot, and slung a measure of tea into a dainty china cup.
“I take milk and sugar,” the duke said, the corners of his mouth fighting against a grin.
“Do you?” Jilly inquired sweetly. “How lovely.” She shoved the unadulterated tea across the low table toward him. Aunt Marcheline made a harsh sound in her throat, her hand pressed to her heart, mortified by Jillian’s rudeness. But the duke only gave a low chuckle, accepting the cup. Cradled in his large hand, the cup looked ridiculous, like it had been scavenged from a child’s tea set. The image was so disconcerting that she nearly laughed.
He caught her gaze, sensed the source of her amusement, and gave a long-suffering sigh. “The hazards of large hands,” he said, watching as Jillian collected the last of the tea cakes, leaving only a bare plate.
“Jillian,” Aunt Marcheline scolded. “You’ve left none for our guest.”
“I didn’t invite him,” Jilly said, and bit into a tiny cake, contriving to sigh with pleasure as if it were the most delectable pastry she had ever tasted.
Aunt Marcheline leveled a fierce look at her as she addressed the duke. “Your Grace, our cook’s tea cakes our divine. You simply must stay and sample them. Of course, Cook will have to whip up another batch, so it may be a while.”
“That sounds wonderful,” the duke replied. “I have no pressing appointments. And I do have a terrible sweet tooth.”
The tea cake crumbled to ash in Jilly’s mouth. She washed it down with a sip of tea and patted her mouth with a dainty napkin.
“I cannot think what has come over my niece,” Aunt Marcheline said, her voice laden with reproach. “Her parents, God rest their souls, would be appalled.”
“I don’t know,” the duke said, balancing the dainty tea cup on his knee.