“Are you referring to Miss Gabriela?” he asked, swinging his head about to look at the duke. Whitfield raised a shoulder in a manner that may have been dismissive if not for the hard look in his blue eyes. “It doesn’t matter. I have never had an interest in winning the approval of shrews.” Gideon’s lip twitched. “I never would have pegged Miss Gabriela as a shrew. She has always been polite and engaging in her conversations with me.” “Yes, well,”—the duke spread his palms—“she has only ever been critical and caustic when we’ve conversed.” “It sounds as if she treats you as you treat others.”
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