Undercover Duke

she would, wouldn’t she, since she was trying to make Juncker jealous. “Are you, my dear?”
“I haven’t uttered a word of complaint, but only because this discussion is ridiculous.” That brought a general rumble of laughter from the others. “I refuse to get in the way of two gentlemen engaging in verbal fisticuffs.”
Juncker gazed at her. “Would you prefer physical fisticuffs?”
Alarm crossed her face. “No, indeed. It would be vulgar for a woman to encourage such a thing.” The crowd murmured their approval. “Besides,” she went on, “I suspect neither of you knows how to engage in physical fisticuffs.”
At the shout of laughter from the onlookers, Juncker clutched his chest. “You wound me deeply, dear lady.”
“I doubt that,” Vanessa said with a smile. “His Grace claims you have the skin of an elephant.”
More laughter ensued.
“And the heart of a lion,” Juncker shot back.
“More like the heart of a mouse,” Sheridan said dryly, “or a minor insult from a lady wouldn’t have you clasping your chest.”
Juncker leaned forward. “I can still use fisticuffs to prove my lion heart, if you prefer.”
“I’m game for it,” Sheridan bit out.
“Enough,” his mother said as she rose. “There will be no fisticuffs of any kind from you two or I shall ban you both from attending any future social affairs I’m involved in.”
“You’d ban your own son,” Sheridan said skeptically.
“Absolutely, if he acts like a brute rather than the gentleman I taught him to be,” she said in that steely voice he remembered from his childhood.
Sheridan struck his chest theatrically. “Now I am wounded deeply.”
“I’ll lend you my elephant skin if you like, Armitage,” Juncker called out.
“No need,” Sheridan answered. “When Mother sees fit to enter the fray, it’s time to stand down.” He fixed Juncker with a dark gaze. “Agreed, sir?”
Juncker hesitated only briefly. “Of course. God forbid I be regarded as a brute by the duchess.”
That was considered the final word, thank God, since Sheridan definitely didn’t want to cause more pain to his mother. She’d suffered enough of it in her lifetime.
And that was an end to the skirmish between him and Juncker, if it could even be called a skirmish. Although Sheridan suspected that the entire mess might have been avoided entirely if. . . .
If what? Vanessa had come down squarely on his side? If she had put herself in his corner in the first place?
She would never do that. Snagging Juncker was her aim. And though that rankled, Sheridan was willing to help her, even if it annoyed him. Even if he disapproved. Even if all he could think of was Vanessa coming to him the way one came to a lover. . . .
Damn it all, that wasn’t acceptable.
He forced a smile for Vanessa’s benefit. “Shall I fetch you another buttered crab, sweetheart?”
Sweetheart? What the hell was he doing?
Wooing Vanessa, apparently, for she gave him the tenderest look she’d ever given him. “I’m fine, thank you,” she said softly.
Good. Excellent. Now, what was he to do with that? It was impossible to know.
They finished their meal, making the politest of conversation with his family. The guests drifted back into the ballroom, and a gentleman snagged Vanessa for a dance.
Sheridan was about to head to the card room when Thorn pulled him aside, looking annoyed. “Olivia told me she blurted out my secret earlier. So your needling me merely served to reinforce the public impression that Juncker writes my plays.”
“Well, now that you know I know, I assume it’s all right if I tell Vanessa.”
“It certainly is not.”
Sheridan scowled. “Why?”
“Because you so obviously want to.” Thorn flashed him a thoroughly devious smile. “I suppose that’s enough comeuppance for your remarks earlier about my writing ability.”
“You know I didn’t mean any of that.”
“I’m sure my guests assumed you did.”
That stymied Sheridan. “Since when do you care what other people think?”
“I don’t.” Thorn laughed. “I merely get the same amount of pleasure from tormenting you as you did from tormenting me.”
He did have a point. Sheridan stared him down. “I don’t need your permission to tell Vanessa, you realize.”
Thorn shrugged. “But if you do, you’ll be breaking your promise to Olivia. Are you a man of your word or not?”
Sheridan released a frustrated breath, then started to walk away.
“It really bothers you that Miss Pryde has a tendre for Juncker, doesn’t it?” Thorn said.
Halting to face his brother once more, Sheridan said, “Don’t be absurd. I don’t care about that. She and I are merely friends.” Perhaps if he kept telling himself that, it would eventually become true. Because he couldn’t afford to have her as anything but a friend.
“No man who is merely a friend to a woman looks at her the way you do.”
Sheridan bit back an oath. “And how is that?”
“As if you aren’t likely to see her kind again. As if she’s the answer to your unhappiness.”
“What makes you think I’m unhappy?”
“Come now, Sheridan, you’ve been unhappy since before Father died. Admit it—you hated how he pushed you to learn estate management when all you wanted was to serve England in the diplomatic services.”
Sheridan tamped down the pain that knifed through him. “Clearly you don’t know me at all.” It wasn’t estate management he disliked. It was his own inability to grasp the nuances of double-entry accounting so he could get a good grasp on what the property needed and where all the money had gone. “But I guess nine years apart does change things a bit.”
Thorn eyed him askance. “What do you mean?”
“Never mind. You wouldn’t understand.” And he wasn’t about to explain. It angered him that he couldn’t handle the numbers. It was apparently a necessary part of overseeing his role.
At least Father had thought it was. He’d relied on his man of affairs out of necessity, since Bonham had been attached to the Duke of Armitage for years, but Father had insisted on Sheridan learning how to make sure things were done right, too. Sadly, Father had died without ever being certain his son