Page 7

Chapter Seven

R obert entered the Ellory parlor with his usual composed step, offering a bow first to Lady Brimwood, who received him as though he were the Prince Regent himself.

“My dear Duke,” she said, rising with delight. “What a pleasant surprise! Do sit. Evelyn, dear, come, don’t be shy.”

Evelyn was seated by the window with her arms crossed and her lips pursed into a sullen little line. She rose with visible reluctance, curtsied, all perfectly, of course, and then, resumed her seat with all the grace of a martyr awaiting execution.

“I hope I am not intruding,” Robert said pleasantly as he sat, glancing once toward the lady in question.

“Not in the least,” Lady Brimwood said at once. “We were simply taking tea. Evelyn, won’t you pour for His Grace?”

“If he wishes,” Evelyn muttered, reaching for the teapot.

“I only came for conversation,” Robert replied smoothly, waving away the offer. “Because I do have a question pressing upon me.”

Evelyn stiffened. He waited a moment then asked with deliberate calm. “Have you at last selected a gown, or am I to expect a six-month engagement while the matter is debated in Parliament?”

That got her attention. She turned her eyes upon him—those beautiful, sharp eyes which now sparkled with indignation.

“Actually,” she retorted, “now that they are all mine, the decision has become significantly more difficult.”

Robert very nearly laughed aloud but managed only the faintest quirk of a brow. “Ah. A natural consequence of generosity, I suppose. My apologies.”

Evelyn said nothing, merely looked as though she’d like to hurl a gown or two at him.

“I did not come empty-handed,” he added, and drew a small parcel from his coat. “No flowers this time. I feared they’d end up in the fireplace again.”

She blinked, caught off guard as he held the slim, leather-bound book toward her. “This is from my personal library. I thought it might suit your tastes.”

“Thank you,” she said warily, taking it. “But I rarely have time to read these days.”

Lady Brimwood turned her head sharply. “What are you talking about, dear child? You love reading. Why, you spend entire mornings with your nose in novels!”

Robert looked at Evelyn, who was now avoiding both their gazes with studied indifference. He bit back a grin.

“Ah,” he said softly, “I see.”

Evelyn shot him a look of pure warning.

“I wonder,” he mused aloud, “if you might do me the honor of a walk through the gardens, Miss Ellory. We would, of course, remain within eyesight. A little air might refresh the senses. Perhaps even aid in your most burdensome gown deliberations.”

Before she could offer the sharp refusal he saw rising in her eyes, Lady Brimwood placed a firm hand on her daughter’s arm.

“What a lovely idea,” she said brightly. “Go on, Evelyn. It would be rude to decline.”

There was a long pause. Robert waited patiently. Finally, Evelyn gave a short, elegant nod, set the book down a little too carefully, and rose with the dignity of a wronged queen.

He offered her his arm, which she accepted with visible reluctance, and they stepped into the hall together as the sound of Lady Brimwood’s delighted humming followed behind them.

Robert glanced side long at her once they reached the corridor. “You’ll be pleased to know,” he said, “that I didn’t bring a bridal veil. I feared it might tip you over the edge.”

Evelyn gave him a cold, brilliant smile. “A pity. I might have used it to strangle you.”

Robert could barely refrain himself from laughing loudly. He truly couldn’t remember the last time someone had the nerve to speak to him so boldly, so unapologetically, offering the first thing that came to mind. It was so utterly refreshing, he could barely hide his amusement.

They had scarcely reached the rose path before Robert asked about the book he had just gifted her.

Evelyn glanced at him sideways. “I glanced at the title.”

“And?”

She seized the moment and pulled her hand away from his arm, only to fold her arms. “I don’t know the author.”

He slowed a step. “You don’t know the author?” he repeated, genuinely surprised.

“No,” she said with a shrug. “Should I?”

“Miss Ellory,” he replied, half incredulous, “that was St. John Grantham. He’s one of the most celebrated essayists of the last decade.”

“Ah,” she said lightly. “Well. I suppose I was too busy doing embroidery.”

Robert looked at her more closely. She wasn’t teasing. At least, not entirely. Her tone was cool and unbothered, but something defensive lingered in the tilt of her chin.

“I must confess, your ignorance is… surprising.”

“I told you,” she said, stopping by a flowering arch, “I don’t really read.”

“But your mother?—”

“She lies,” Evelyn said crisply. “Or rather, she embellishes when she believes it makes me appear more accomplished. It’s a habit of hers.”

A beat of silence exploded between them.

Robert studied her carefully as they resumed their slow walk through the garden, with his hands clasped behind his back.

“If not reading, then what do you occupy yourself with all day?”

She considered a moment. “Needlework.”

“Needlework,” he repeated, trying and utterly failing not to sound disappointed.

“Yes. Samplers, mostly.” She glanced at him with a blank expression that almost seemed designed to provoke. “Oh, and I sort my ribbons.”

He blinked. “You… sort them?”

“By color. And width. It helps me think.”

Robert turned to her slightly, unsure whether she was mocking him. Her tone was utterly even. “And what else?”

She looked up at the sky. “I water my plants though I do believe most of them are dying. I take tea. I walk in circles around our garden path. Sometimes I help my mother fold linens. If I’m feeling particularly adventurous, I alphabetize our pantry.”

Robert stared at her. “You must be the most thrilling woman in all of England.”

She gave a single, exaggerated nod. “I am. Positively scandalous.”

A slow smirk tugged at his mouth. “You are either lying to provoke me or deeply unwell.”

“I wouldn’t waste a lie on something so tedious,” she replied, feigning offence. “I’m merely giving you what you asked for.”

His amusement deepened. “And here I was, foolishly imagining you spent your days riding across meadows and breaking hearts.”

She gave a delicate sniff. “I haven’t broken anything recently. Except one of my mother’s porcelain vases last week. It was an accident, I assure you.”

Robert let out a quiet, surprised laugh before he could help it. There was something in the way she recited her bland itinerary with such severe poise that he couldn’t quite tell whether she was amusing herself at his expense or if this truly was the life she led. Either way, he was intrigued.

“Perhaps,” he considered slowly, “I’ll send you another gown, one suitable for alphabetizing preserves.”

“Please don’t,” she replied quickly. “I’d have to invent a new cupboard to justify it.”

Their eyes met again, and though her lips were pursed and her posture impeccably correct, he could see the sparkle of mischief lurking just beneath the surface.

Yes, he thought, this one will keep me on my toes.

Evelyn clasped her hands primly before her as they strolled beneath the trimmed hedgerows.

She was rather proud of herself. The bit about sorting ribbons?

Inspired. The pantry alphabetization? Absolute genius.

It had taken every ounce of restraint not to smirk when he’d asked if she was unwell.

No man, surely, would want to marry a woman who sorted starches and sugars for entertainment.

Yes, it was working splendidly. She could almost see it now: the haughty, impossible Duke Aberon, riding off in dramatic dismay, drafting a letter to dissolve the engagement, citing a tragic lack of intellectual compatibility or terminal dullness . And who could blame him? She was utterly tiresome.

She dared a glance up at him as they walked. He was quiet, thoughtful. Likely already composing the very letter in his mind.

Victory, she thought. Sweet, sweet ? —

“I wonder,” he said suddenly, cutting through her thoughts, “if you alphabetize your pantry in French or English.”

She stumbled a step. “Pardon?”

“Well, you strike me as a woman of taste,” he observed mildly. “And surely you keep your imported goods separate.”

“I…” Her eyes narrowed. “Naturally, I do.”

He smiled as if this confirmed something. She could not tell whether he was mocking her or playing along.

“Have you always been so… orderly?” he asked after a moment, with false innocence.

“Yes,” she replied quickly. “Even as a child, I preferred a broom to a doll.”

“Fascinating. And did your ribbons behave, or were they difficult to discipline?”

She turned to him fully now, stopping in the path. “Are you making fun of me, Your Grace?”

His smile remained, infuriatingly unreadable. “Not at all. I’m simply getting to know my future duchess.”

She bristled at that. “You may find I’m not quite duchess material after all.”

He stepped a fraction closer, voice lowering. “On the contrary, I find you… rather singular.”

The look in his eyes sent an unexpected flutter down her spine.

Blast him.

Why was he smiling like that, as if he knew exactly what she was doing?

She turned sharply and resumed walking. “Well, I’m afraid I’m not very interesting. I like things plain and simple and… predictable.”

“Indeed.” He fell in step beside her once more. “And you’ve no desire at all for adventure?”

She scoffed. “Certainly not.”

“Or for conversation with a man who might actually listen?”

She flinched at that, inwardly, but she did not show it. “I’ve never found a man who listens to be particularly useful.”

His laugh was soft, genuine this time. “You wound me.”

She fought the urge to smile.

Yes, she thought, eyes forward. Very soon, he’ll come to his senses.

No man as proud and powerful as Robert Firming could tolerate marrying a woman as dreadfully unremarkable as the one she was pretending to be.

“And tell me, Miss Ellory, in your vast expertise on preserves,” he enquired, “what do the French call gooseberries? Surely you know, since I imagine you label them en francais .”

She arched a brow. “ Groseilles à maquereau .”

He smiled smugly. “No, no, I believe it’s groseilles rouges . Red currants.”

She stopped walking.

“No,” she said coolly. “ Groseilles rouges are red currants. Gooseberries are groseilles à maquereau. You’ll find they’re quite distinct. A gooseberry has a tart, herbaceous note. A red currant is sharper, brighter. Entirely different texture, too.”

He turned to her with maddening calm, as if she’d only proven some private hypothesis.

“Astonishing,” he murmured. “A woman who claims she’s too dull for books, too simple for anything beyond pantry organization, yet speaks fluent French and probably knows the difference between every last fruit in God’s orchard.”

Evelyn’s breath caught.

Blast. Blast and botheration.

She’d walked right into it.

“I read a menu once,” she said stiffly. “In Calais. It left an impression.”

“A menu that included gooseberries?”

“They were in the dessert,” she lied flatly.

He tilted his head, smiling faintly, like a cat toying with its dinner. “Of course.”

They stood in a stillness made sharper by the scent of lavender in the warm air. Somewhere in the distance, a bird trilled. Evelyn’s spine straightened as she lifted her chin.

“If you wish to insult me, Your Grace, there are far less roundabout ways to do it.”

“I’ve no desire to insult you,” he said, stepping just a little nearer. “But if you mean to trick me, Miss Ellory, might I suggest you pick a better disguise than pretending to be dim-witted and tragically devoted to ribbon spools?”

Her fingers curled at her sides.

“I never claimed to be dim-witted,” she snapped before she could stop herself.

He merely raised an eyebrow.

Drat.

“I meant to say…” She huffed, grasping at dignity. “I only wish to keep things simple.”

“Well, I do apologize, Miss Ellory,” he said with his voice full of mock-regret, “but there is absolutely nothing simple about you.”

Her face burned. She turned away from him abruptly and began to walk again, barely minding her pace. She hated the way her heart had leapt at those last words. No doubt he meant to unnerve her. No doubt he was enjoying himself far too much.

And worst of all? She had enjoyed correcting him.

He had seen straight through her charade, and now, she’d have to think of something even better. Something truly uninspired. Something utterly boring. Dreadful, even.

She squared her shoulders in an effort to regain control of whatever she could.

“Next time,” she said aloud, “I shall speak only of mildew and potatoes.”

She didn’t look at him, but she could hear the amusement in his reply.

“I await the conversation eagerly.”