What I Did For a Duke Page 5

  Which surprised him.

  He considered whether he liked her voice. It was low, a soft alto; very refined. But the word had been all but uninflected. He’d learned over the years that one can quickly ascertain whether someone possessed intelligence from a mere syllable or two. It was something about the confidence with which they spoke.

  He was instantly certain she was not a simpleton.

  “Do you know it, Miss Eversea? Rosemont?”

  “Yes.”

  He looked around. Naught but trees and a long drive; beyond them were soft rolling hills. This was Sussex, all right. He waited.

  And waited.

  “This is the place in the conversation where one might forgive me for thinking you’d expound a bit.”

  It was admirably dry, that sentence. She ought to smile. She ought to be attempting to charm him, after all. At least a little. He was a bloody duke.

  “It’s lovely,” was all she said. Dutifully. Perhaps interpreting him literally.

  Or perhaps as a means of discouraging any other such witticisms.

  “Did you like the dolphin pool?” he asked, knowing full well there was no such thing at Rosemont.

  “Satyr pool,” she corrected him.

  “You recall the satyr?”

  “Yes.”

  “The one urinating in the fountain in the circular drive?”

  “It’s spitting,” she corrected.

  Dear God, this was discouraging. She wasn’t even blushing, and he’d most definitely been offensive. She possessed not a shred of whimsy.

  “Ah, of course. I hadn’t visited it in some time but I recollect it was performing one or another of a man’s favorite pastimes. Spitting, smoking, wagering . . .”

  She didn’t quite sigh. But he had the most peculiar impression that she was stifling one.

  He began to wonder if he’d been wrong and if she was dim, after all.

  Or insufferably prim.

  It might be satisfying to undo all of that.

  Then again, it might be an onerous chore.

  Up ahead he saw the long figure of Ian Eversea walking alongside his father. He glanced behind him, from him to Genevieve, a flicker of concern over his pale face.

  The duke intercepted the glance and returned it with black inscrutability.

  Ian whipped his head back around immediately, and absently felt his back, as though he expected to find a dagger plunged there any minute.

  “It was very thoughtful of you, Miss Eversea, to consider whether I might need assistance walking. Kindness is a very appealing quality. It is everything I hope for in a wife.”

  There. He’d gone and said the word every girl considered the grail of conversation.

  “My sister, Olivia, is very kind,” she said almost too quickly. “She would make a splendid wife.”

  He blinked. It was the liveliest she’d sounded yet. “Oh?”

  “Olivia deserves to make a splendid match. She was thwarted in love once before. A grand title would be perfect.”

  “As a consolation prize?” She’d succeeded in startling him.

  “I’m terribly sorry. I didn’t mean to make you squeak.”

  What a word! “I’ve never squeaked in my entire life.”

  “You achieved a special octave then, if you prefer,” she allowed calmly. “And you just did it again.”

  And now he was determined to ruffle the calm, calm surface that was Genevieve Eversea’s composure, if only to ascertain she was human. The girl was either void of social skills—which seemed unlikely, given her upbringing—or she was a minx and she was trying to deflect him for some unfathomable reason. Regardless, she’d seized control of their conversation.

  He wanted it back.

  “A special octave . . .” He pretended to muse this. “Are you suggesting I sound like a castrato?”

  Ah! At last! An agreeable tide of pink slowly flooded those pale cheeks. A second passed during which he’d thought she was speechless.

  “If the shoe fits,” she finally agreed absently.

  He turned sharply to look at her. He narrowed his eyes.

  But her eyes were fixed on the lane ahead and then she dropped them to her feet just as Lord Harry turned and began walking backward, waving gaily at her.

  She lifted her head slightly, with an obvious effort raised a hand back at him, produced a strained smile, and dropped her eyes.

  And then she breathed in so deeply her shoulders lifted. As though bracing herself. And when she looked up again, the tops of her ears were pink, he noticed. From cold, or was some other suppressed emotion heating them up?

  “It’s only that . . . well, if Olivia cannot be with the man she loves, as he has vanished like a bloody cowardly . . .”

  She stopped talking abruptly. Yanking herself back like a dog on a lead.

  Which was a pity, as the words had acquired a fascinating whiff of venom and had begun to escalate in volume. She would have done some squeaking of her own.

  Genevieve Eversea was beginning to interest him.

  “If she cannot be with the man she loves . . .” he prompted.

  “I do believe she can only to be with someone . . . impressive.”

  “Impressive . . .” He pretended to ponder this. “I hope you do not think I presume, but I cannot help but wonder if you’re referring to me. Given my rank and fortune, some might describe me as such. And I’m flattered indeed, given that there really are so many other words you could have chosen to describe me.”

  A pause followed. The girl was most definitely a thinker.

  “We have only just become acquainted, Lord Moncrieffe. I might elect to use other words to describe you should I come to know you better.”

  Exquisite and refined as convent lace, her manners, her delivery.

  And still he could have sworn she was having one over on him.

  She seemed to be watching her feet now. The scenery didn’t interest her, or it caused her discomfort.

  And as he watched her, something unfamiliar stirred.

  He was . . . genuinely interested in what she might say next.

  And as for Genevieve Eversea, she gave him only her profile. One would have thought she’d never been so bored. No frisking about for her, like her friend up ahead.

  “Look at that squirrel! It has a stripe!” he heard faintly. Followed by a delighted squeal from the lush Lady Millicent.

  Jacob Eversea, Ian, Lord Harry, and Lady Millicent had momentarily disappeared over the swell of a small hill.

  And on they strode for a few more silent moments.

  “Do you ever gamble, Miss Eversea?”

  “No,” she said shortly.

  “A pity. Because I suspect you have an excellent game face. You’d make a fortune.”

  Her head swiveled quickly toward him, her eyes wide. She quickly looked away again, and just as quickly recomposed herself.

  He studied her profile. Quite ordinary, sadly. She’d lovely skin. Pity there was no color in it, in her cheeks or lips. The lashes were thick and black. It was difficult to know much about her figure, given that she’d draped a shawl over the dress. Her hair was dark and shiny and from the looks of how it was pinned up, plentiful. He tried to find something in all of this to inspire enthusiasm for the seduction. He found nothing.

  “And the best part about gambling, Miss Eversea, is that sometimes . . . you win. I nearly always win.”

  She couldn’t disguise but instantly doused that flicker of wary comprehension in her eyes. Ah. She suspected he was onto her. But she was determined to pretend she didn’t understand him.

  This was . . . well, there was no other word for it. This was interesting.

  What was a girl of twenty or so doing possessed of such control? Why was she . . . deploying it around him? Considering that most of the members of her family were hardly known for theirs. And for heaven’s sake, he was a duke and hardly a gargoyle. His presence and reputation never failed to elicit some sort of reaction, but not once, not o
nce had he witnessed indifference. She was an anomaly.

  “I thank you for your suggestion, Your Grace, but my family is possessed of a substantial fortune—”

  “Indeed?” he said, as if this was news to him. Because it amused him to say it.

  “And I don’t approve of gambling.”

  “And of course one must only engage in pastimes one approves of.”

  She was silent. Her lips compressed. More disapproval? Or could it be she was actually suppressing a smile?

  She continued steadfastly refusing to look at him. She sighed.

  After a few more steps, when she spoke again, it was with bemusement he began to suspect that he wasn’t the only one with an objective today. But what was hers?

  “It is just that Olivia’s happiness is so important to me. I cannot imagine any man who came to know her wouldn’t come to love her, for everyone does,” she said earnestly.

  He narrowed his eyes in suspicion again. And he said absolutely nothing.

  Miss Eversea wasn’t the only thinker.

  “Selflessness is such an appealing quality,” he volleyed with quiet passion. “It’s perhaps my favorite of all qualities in any female. And when someone puts the happiness of a loved one before her own . . . why, it’s irresistibly appealing,” he added meaningfully.

  She went grimly silent.

  And as he walked and stared at the backs of her friends and Jacob and Ian, something peculiar happened to him. Could that twinge somewhere in his solar plexus be . . . enjoyment? Could that tension around his mouth be . . . a smile struggling to form?

  She walked on. Her eyes flicked toward him, flicked away. He could sense her furious concentration. She watched the backs of the heads of her friends, one bright gold, the other burnished gold. She gave a short unconscious little huff of breath.

  Sounding like an impatient horse.

  He stifled a laugh. He was! He was, despite himself, genuinely, officially if perversely . . . enjoying himself. She could never win, of course. She possessed admirable control but that impatient huff gave her game away. He would find a niche in her defenses; he would parry expertly; he would charm her. He always inevitably got what he wanted. Still, it was an unusual pleasure to be matched with a worthy opponent.

  She cleared her throat. “Yes. Well. Olivia is selfless as well, as she is devoted to causes. She is very active in the abolitionist society.”

  “Do you suppose she’d be equally devoted to the comfort and pleasure of her husband?”

  Her eyes widened in surprise. Amusingly, this question actually gave her pause.

  Her head tipped, considering it.

  “She is considered a great beauty,” is what she finally said instead.

  He brushed a knuckle against his lips to keep the laugh from escaping.

  “And she of course is,” he agreed. “I have had the pleasure of seeing her in a ballroom. I am tempted to believe the very name Eversea is all but synonymous with”—treachery, debauchery—“beauty.”

  Her brows were straight and dark and slim as hyphens in that pale, ordinary face. They twitched as though she was desperate to frown. He found himself looking forward almost breathlessly to what she might say next.

  But she said nothing.

  So he spoke. “Why did everyone assume the bouquets were for Olivia? I imagine you receive your share.”

  He doubted this.

  “They generally are for Olivia,” she said with equanimity. “They generally arrive by the bushel after a ball.”

  “Surely your admirers must be legion, too.”

  A twitch of the brows again. He’d noticed she grew restive when subjected to overt compliments. He would calibrate accordingly.

  “Oh, they are.” She seized upon this, perhaps as a way to deter him. “One can scarcely see me for the hordes of young men at balls. You would need a cricket bat to fight them off.”

  That won’t work, either, Miss Eversea.

  “But don’t the hordes shower you with blooms? They ought to.”

  “I am a frequent recipient of white lilies,” she said evenly. “And daisies and daffodils. White roses. Narcissus. And bunches of wildflowers.”

  A passionless recitation.

  “A virtuous selection, indeed. And do you like those kinds of flowers?”

  “I like all flowers,” she allowed noncommittally, after a moment.

  “How very democratic of you.”

  She seemed to be biting the inside of her lip against a smile.

  He would make her smile if it killed him.

  “But it’s understood Olivia in particular is so vivid and vivacious, and she has such strong passions. I believe the flowers are meant to convey admiration for this,” she explained.

  “And while those are indeed admirable qualities in a woman, I also appreciate subtleties of character,” he parried.

  “And yet so very little is subtle about Lady Abigail Beasley,” Miss Eversea pointed out peevishly, quickly.

  God.

  He nearly grunted with the force of her thrust home. And she’d demonstrated a willingness to play dirty.

  Silence plunked like an anvil between them.

  Lady Abigail Beasley. The name oddly deflated him. He found for a moment he had nothing, nothing at all, to say.

  He wondered what Miss Eversea was thinking when she thought of Abigail Beasley. The word Abigail still meant to him curls ambered by firelight, a laugh just shy of bawdy, a body, he supposed, that hadn’t a prayer of remaining shy. A body very like the one possessed by that laughing girl Millicent Blenkenship.

  And then he saw white shoulders and a blanket drawn up to her chest and the naked white arse of Ian Eversea squeezing out the window in the dark.

  Up ahead of him, that lanky worthless brother of this colorless girl walked free. If he had a spear now, he could skewer him with one jerk of his arm.

  Alex was suddenly aware of the oppressive grayness of the day, tacked down around them like a tent. The fury and shame of his cuckolding, the sheer ridiculousness of it, washed over him again.

  He glanced up at Ian.

  I will shame you, he thought. I will take from her what you took from me.

  “I always imagined that’s the expression men wore as they were about to shoot each other in a duel,” Genevieve offered conversationally.

  So she’d been watching him. She was observant and clever and it suddenly irritated him. Plain girls who were also clever were a ha’pence a dozen and he didn’t want or need to be scrutinized.

  Without saying anything, he composed his face into what he hoped were neutral planes, rather than bloodthirsty ones. But still he said nothing.

  “Were you in love with her?”

  Oh, for God’s sake. Love. Women lobbed that bloody word as gaily as a shuttlecock. Someone ought to teach them it was a bloody grenade. And she’d said it so insufferably gently, too. The same way she’d asked him if he’d needed a walking staff.

  “It’s not a toy, that word, Miss Eversea,” he muttered under his breath.

  “I beg your pardon?” So politely said after a moment he wondered if she was bored. She likely didn’t actually care whether he was in love.

  Her thoughts had distantly drifted in the span of only a few seconds. She in truth couldn’t be less interested in his answer, he thought.

  Have a care, Miss Eversea, he thought. I’m learning more and more about you.

  Soon enough he’d ensure her thoughts were entirely for him.

  He’d never yet failed when he’d set out to seduce a woman, and this girl, regardless, was human. Likely she hadn’t many suitors and very little experience with romance. Where there was a temper passion generally lurked. He would find a way to unleash it and take advantage of it.

  He watched the mirror-bright, valet-shined toes of his boots kick up fallen leaves. Gold, brown, russet sprayed up, came down. He looked up. The autumn-stripped trees clawed at the sky, and he was aware that despite his own fine looks and robust health he wo
uld soon be staring down his own autumn years.

  “To address your question fairly, Miss Eversea . . . while I understand my broken engagement is a popular topic of conversation among the fashionable set, one must consider the possibility that the end of it was serendipitous for both Lady Abigail and I. And that thus freed our hearts might now love more appropriately and happily.”

  Take that, Miss Eversea. He was rather proud of that.

  That epic, steaming mound of balderdash.

  It also contained the word love, which was to women the way shiny things were to magpies. She would seize upon it. She would probably speak gently again. He would find a way beneath her ramparts yet.

  Miss Eversea drew in a long, thoughtful breath, and slowly, slowly tilted her head back. A faint hint of line shadowed that smooth white forehead. The beginnings of a frown.

  “Hearts?” she finally repeated pensively.

  He laughed.

  He couldn’t help it. He managed to turn it into a cough into his fist when she turned abruptly toward him, but it was genuine, and she’d surprised it from him. Bloody hell, it sounded as though she doubted he’d ever possessed a beating heart but was prepared to humor his delusion.

  The trouble was he wasn’t even certain whether he did, either. Or that he knew any longer how to use it for anything other than a fancy bellows for pumping blood through his body.

  She was quiet again. She was leaning forward a bit into the wind, her hands tightly clasped to hold her shawl over her. She was too cold, or perhaps she simply wanted to create a more streamlined profile in order to plow more efficiently through an increasingly frisky fall wind and get closer to her friends and her brother and away from him.

  To get this walk over with, for he sensed she’d embarked upon it on sufferance.

  It was like watching a pony stalwartly traverse the moors. God, but that wasn’t at all a sensual thought, and he’d need to muster a certain amount of pleasure in the prospect of ruining her or he’d never get the job done.

  Oh, very well: a delicate pony, then.

  “Millicent, do have a look at this squirrel!” Far up ahead of them, Harry was pointing up.

  “What are your pleasures and pursuits, Lord Moncrieffe?” Miss Eversea asked too brightly, when the silence had gone on for more than was strictly comfortable or polite.