His breath fanned her lips with a delicious scent of brandy and mint. The sensual masculinity of him washed over her and warmed her through.

Daisy’s lids fluttered as, for one span of a heartbeat, she imagined he intended to kiss her, here, in the muddied streets of London for all to see. Which was really rather foolish because the proper, powerful Duke of Crawford would never do something as scandalously wonderful as kissing her, Daisy Meadows, in the streets of London, for all to—

“Daisy?”

“Hmm?”

“Do you have something in your eye?”

Her eyes flew open and her skin burned at the odd tilt to Auric’s head as he studied her. The vendor held over another cloth. “Er…” She waved off the gesture. “No.”

His chestnut eyebrows dipped further.

“Er…that is…I do not have anything in my eye.” Only, how else to explain the silly fluttering of her lashes. “Or I may have,” she said on a rush, her mouth moving faster than her mind. “But no longer. I think I quite managed to…” Stop talking, Daisy Meadows. Stop talking. Her words trailed off as he continued to study her around the stained fabric of his cloth. “I’m all right,” she said on a sigh. The wind tugged at her cloak and she pulled it close.

“What are you doing?” he asked somberly.

She lifted her shoulders in a small shrug. “I’m shopping.” It was true. Granted, it was no mere frippery she sought.

“The Daisy I remember loved riding astride and spitting and cursing. She detested shopping.”

She bit the inside of her cheek. Is that how he still saw her? As the small, bothersome child who’d dogged his and Lionel’s every step. And yet, he was right. A woman grown now, she still detested going shopping. With her plump frame, she’d tired of the modiste’s tsking about her generous proportions.

“What is so important that you’d come out without an escort, Daisy?” His low baritone rumbled from his chest.

Had his tone been disapproving and condescending, she’d have turned on her heel and ignored his question. But it wasn’t. Instead, it was gentle and insistent all at the same time. “I’m looking for a necklace.” After years of being relegated to the role of the forgotten, surviving child, there was something warm in knowing someone cared and was concerned.

He stuffed the bloodstained yellow fabric inside his cloak. “A particular style of necklace?”

She’d learned long ago to be suspicious of too many questions from Auric. Daisy eyed him cautiously. “Perhaps,” she said noncommittally. She braced for his stern ducal displeasure.

His lips twitched in a manner reminiscent of the teasing young man she remembered. “That is vague.” He folded his arms at his chest. And waited. And because she’d witnessed firsthand the strength of his obstinacy over the years perhaps better than anyone else, she also knew he’d stand there until the night sky slipped across the horizon many hours from now.

 “Very well.” Daisy rocked back on her heels. “It is a heart pendant.” She put her fingers together. “About this big, and gold with slight etchings upon it.”

Auric glanced up and down the street at the endless rows of wagons and carts littered with peddlers’ wares. “And you expect to find this heart?”

“I do,” she said softly. She had to find this heart. For, according to Lady Anne and the lady’s sisters, to find it would mean Auric’s heart. The foolishness of such thoughts did not escape her, and yet…she still needed to believe, in something: a pendant, Auric, the dream of them. To not have this small hope she would find herself empty, with nothing. She braced for his cool grin and mocking words. He said nothing for a long while and she shuffled back and forth on her feet. She really wished he’d say something—even if it was a coolly mocking response about the futility of her search. Anything to this silence. She cast a glance about and located her maid. Agnes moved quickly among a row of carts, dutiful in her search. Daisy looked once more to Auric.

He held out his elbow.

Daisy tightened her jaw. She folded her arms across her chest. “I’m not leaving, Auric. I’ll not allow you to hand me into the carriage like I’m a recalcitrant child. I’m a grown woman and—”

“Daisy?”

“Yes?”

“Take my arm.” His smooth, refined tones gave no indication as to his thoughts.

She eyed him warily. For surely he was as perturbed with her this day as he so often was. “Why?” She’d not be tossed unceremoniously into her carriage as he’d done yesterday.

The ghost of a smile played on his lips. “You’ll need help looking for this necklace.”

USA TODAY Bestselling author CHRISTI CALDWELL blames Judith McNaught’s “Whitney, My Love!” for luring her into the world of historical romance. While sitting in her graduate school apartment at the University of Connecticut, Christi decided to set aside her notes and pick up her laptop to try her hand at romance. She believes the most perfect heroes and heroines have imperfections, and she rather enjoys torturing them before crafting them a well deserved happily ever after!

Christi makes her home in southern Connecticut where she spends her time writing her own enchanting historical romances, chasing around her feisty six-year-old son and caring for her twin princesses in training!

http://christicaldwellauthor.com