Not even an offer of tea, Griffith thought, disdainfully amused. Not that he wanted to take tea—or even a stronger beverage—with this entirely unpleasant person.

“I look forward to seeing you at the wedding,” the duke said in a stiff tone of voice.

Griffith entertained the notion of telling the duke he wouldn’t be invited, since he strongly suspected Della wouldn’t want them there, but he also knew he shouldn’t and wouldn’t interfere with her and her family.

“I’ll deal with it,” he said again, striding out the door.

Chapter 18

“So . . .” Sarah began, fixing the tea as she and Della liked it, “how was it?”

Della couldn’t pretend to misunderstand. “It was wonderful.” She barely recognized her own gushing tone.

They were in the small sitting room, each holding one kitten. The sun was making one last valiant effort before nightfall, and the room was cast in a warm, golden glow.

Sarah raised one dark eyebrow. “That good?”

Della bit her lip. “Mmm. Only—”

“What?” Sarah prompted, when Della stopped speaking.

“Only it felt too close. Too intimate as soon as it was done.”

Sarah folded her arms over her chest and rested her back on the sofa, a knowing smile on her face.

“What?” Della asked challengingly. Fearful she knew what her friend was going to say, and unable to deny it.

Sarah shrugged, looking sly. “You have feelings for him.” She reached forward to take Della’s hand. “I believe you might have fallen in love with him.” The last part she said in a dramatic whisper, punctuating her words by leaning forward to speak directly into Della’s face.

“No, I haven’t.” Only her response didn’t sound sincere, and both of them knew that.

Sarah shrugged. “Deny it all you want. You like him, don’t you?”

Della shifted uncomfortably. “There’s a vast difference between liking someone and—and that other thing.”

“Falling in love with them?” Sarah supplied in a disingenuous voice.

“Yes. That.” Della focused her gaze on the kitten, since she didn’t want to look her friend in the eye. “He is pleasant. He is certainly pleasant to look at, and what we did was”—and she paused, searching for the word—“spectacular, but that doesn’t mean I’ve fallen in love with him.”

“Do you think about him when you’re not with him?”

Always.

“Uh—”

“And do you feel comforted in his presence? But uncomfortable in an enjoyably pricklish way?”

Yes.

“Uh—”

“And when you think about him being with someone else, or you being with someone else, how does that make you feel?”

Like I’d like to murder someone.

“Being possessive doesn’t mean I’m in love, it just means I don’t like to share,” Della retorted, unable to keep herself from arguing even though she suspected Sarah was entirely correct. As usual.