Page 5 of Duke of Disguise (Ladies of Worth #4)

The annoying Englishman did not appear to be leaving. Emilie continued to frown at him, and he continued to smile lazily at her, completely unaffected by her expression or her tone.

He was insufferable.

Paused as they were, in the midst of a stream of people following the central path through the gardens, Emilie found herself jostled more than once. Lutin began growling in her arms.

“Good day—” she began, determined to leave this interfering Englishman in her wake.

“It’s getting rather crowded,” the Duke cut in. “Perhaps I may escort you and your canine companion to one of the smaller paths for respite?” He offered her his arm.

Respite? Had she been so transparent in her frustration with the crowds? How vexing. This man had caught her unawares and she was allowing him to read her like a book. Her outburst a few moments ago had already made her feel foolish. Why must men behave as though she constantly needed managing?

Another person jostled her and Lutin barked. She soothed the little dog, cooing in his ear, and then looked back to the Duke of Tremaine’s offered arm.

“Very well.” If he was not going to leave, she may as well make use of his taller figure. He would be excellent at parting the crowds.

She slipped her hand, still holding the parcel, onto his arm, and to her surprise he took the biscuits from her.

“Allow me to carry them for you,” he said, depositing the package in his pocket.

The kind gesture from the self-serving aristocrat surprised her. It would have been insignificant if not for two reasons. Firstly, the Duke had, up until now, appeared as selfish as any other well-born gentleman. Secondly, no one went out of their way to show kindness to a woman of Emilie’s station.

They had almost reached the centre of the Jardin des Tuileries when the Duke turned them left. The crowds began to thin. On either side were formal gardens, shrubs and flowers arranged in lines and borders, and ahead a set of shallow steps leading up to an elevated path.

In spite of his small display of kindness, Emilie was formulating an excuse to take her leave of the Duke—with the hard-sought dog biscuits in her possession—when he spoke again.

“Might your brave hound like to stretch his short legs? As delectable as being in your arms must be, I can’t help but think the beast should be set free.”

Emilie resisted the urge to roll her eyes at his sycophancy and any warming she had felt towards him immediately cooled. “Now we are past that last entertainer, I shall put him down,” she said. “Lutin cannot abide monkeys and he has had an altercation with that little black one before.”

The Duke looked back to where she indicated. A young dark-haired man was laughing and joking with the crowds, a tiny monkey wearing a striped suit sitting upon his shoulders, pretending to pick fleas out of his hair and throw them at the crowd. Cries of surprise and laughter rang out.

“Ah, a simian tormentor.” Tremaine nodded knowingly. “You know best, Mademoiselle.”

She was at once pleased that he had deferred to her better judgement and suspicious that his tone was not in the least sincere.

She had received the distinct impression, when they first met, that he disapproved of her. It was to be expected from the more conservative in Society. However commonplace it was for a noble to have a mistress, there were those who disapproved, and she had assumed this Duke was one of them. An irony, considering his penchant for cock fights, elopements and gaming.

Yet here he was flattering her and not leaving her company. What did he want? Did he hope to steal her attentions away from the Comte de Vergelles who he had seen her with before? Or did he just take perverse pleasure in provoking others?

They reached the end of the path and ascended the few steps up onto the gravel walkway that ran along the edge of the Jardin des Tuileries. There were now very few others walking in the same direction. A group of ladies were some fifty yards ahead and another couple strolled a fair way behind. Observing these distances and considering it safe, Emilie removed her hand from the Duke’s arm, and bent to place Lutin on the floor, allowing him to wander on his lead and sniff to his heart’s content.

“Tell me,” the English nobleman said, offering his arm again.

Emilie wished very much she could refuse, but it would be impolite not to take it. She could not quite read the Duke, and she could read people well—but he appeared as a series of contradictions that made her feel uneasy.

“How long have you been in Paris?”

The directness of his question put her on her guard. She said nothing for a few moments and then, as if she had not heard him, asked, “Are you in Paris long, Your Grace?” Was it cruel to hope he said no?

“As long as my uncle deems fit,” he replied, amusement in his voice.

“Ah, the cock pit,” Emilie said.

Every now and then she paused to let Lutin sniff some patch of ground or a fallen leaf.

“You listened,” Tremaine said with mock-gratefulness. “And you—or are you determined to remain a mystery?”

That was unexpected. She had thought him likely to speak at length about himself and his exploits. The speed with which he turned the question back upon her caused her to answer without thinking.

“I was born in Paris.”

“Ah, a Parisian through and through.”

He had a way of speaking where he elongated words, drawling them out, as though he were bored, not just of the conversation, but of the language itself. It smacked of arrogance.

“I am surprised.”

The words were dangled like bait, ready for her to snatch, and to her immense ire she found herself doing just that. “Oh?” At least her tone wasn’t inviting.

“I detect a distinct lack of pride in your heritage. That is not normal for a Parisian, n’est pas?”

He was not being put off by her obvious aversion to his enquiries. It was common among the nobility—a complete lack of awareness of others. They cared about only what interested them, what served them. He was just like Lucien.

In the present moment, what interested the Duke was her. She was fast coming to the conclusion he was not interested in taking her attentions from the Comte—she was a plaything to him. A bored petulant English noble looking for a distraction in his imposed exile.

“You know much of the Parisians?” she asked, not giving anything further away. She would keep whatever cards she had close to her chest.

“Only a little. I’d been in Greece and Italy for several years before coming back to Society.”

“Ah—Agamemnon,” she muttered under her breath.

“Exactement!” the Duke exclaimed “You have a first-rate mind—does the Comte buy you books on ancient history?”

They were approaching a series of promenading parties coming in the opposite direction and she hoped this would disrupt his enquiries. But despite him attracting the attention of several ladies passing by, his gaze did not falter from the path ahead, and he continued the same line of conversation.

“Or perhaps you bargain for books yourself as well as dog biscuits?”

A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth, begging to be set free.

“I shall tell no one if you find the humour of an Englishman amusing. Your secret is safe with me.”

Curse him! How was he so observant?

Another party passed them by and within it was a tall, slender lady, quite beautiful, wearing a cornflower-blue dress and matching coat. The woman noticed the Duke, whose height and classical features Emilie had to admit were handsome, and fluttered her eyelashes in his direction.

The Duke paid no attention.

“Along with the secret of disdaining your heritage, of course.”

“I don’t disdain my heritage,” Emilie retorted.

The man did not know of what he spoke. The Duke of Tremaine had no knowledge outside of the shimmering salons of aristocratic Society. He was of the rank whose narrow existence birthed an ennui that could only be challenged by excess. The excesses of gambling and affairs of the heart, both of which she knew him guilty.

If he hadn’t so provoked the Comte on their first meeting, Emilie would have expected Vergelles to single out the Duke later on. Tremaine was just the sort of man the Comte usually befriended to encourage business investments from. Fools with money.

“Oh, I have upset you—or was the upset caused by your being saved from that thieving market seller by an Englishman?” Then, with marginally less sarcasm, “I think in actuality, I intruded upon you, took over the situation in a failed attempt at gallantry, and have now forced my unwelcome company upon you with an inordinate number of questions.”

“Oui,” she said without a second thought.

The bluntness of her reply, which she had not meant to say out loud, caused her to clap a free hand over her mouth.

Now the Duke was laughing. “Candour—now that I can respect.”

“Pardon!” she said, her barbed tone disappearing completely.

This nobleman was horrifyingly astute with an uncanny ability to read her mind. The only thing which combatted her mortification even a little, was the light of amusement she saw in his eyes when she glanced worriedly at him. Accompanying that gleam was the most disarming smile.

“Forgive me,” she repeated in English, “I was just… surprised by you when you interrupted me speaking to the biscuit seller. I am used to my morning trips to the Jardin des Tuileries alone. It is my time with Lutin.”

“Ah, say no more.” The Duke’s tone was gentle. “There is something sacred in the little routines of our lives, no? They provide sanity in an otherwise chaotic world.”

The Englishman couldn’t have spoken truer words. “That is exactly it,” she said.

“In that case, all is forgiven,” he said generously. “Before I lost interest in my studies, I once threw a shoe at my cousin when he interrupted me reading.”

He recounted the memory in such a serious tone that Emilie did not immediately take in what he had said. When it finally registered, she was overwhelmed with a desire to laugh. She stifled it, an errant squeal escaping.

“Ah,” said the Duke knowingly, “That is the way into your good graces, then—violent anecdotes. I shall take note.”

“Absolument pas!” Emilie replied severely, stifling a rebellious laugh.

Whatever she thought of this Englishman, he was amusing.

By this time, they had followed the gravel path around the north side of the gardens, and then looped back to approach their starting point.

Lutin stopped sniffing. In fact, he stopped altogether, planting his fluffy bottom on a patch of grass, ears pricked up at his mistress, waiting expectantly. Emilie was not paying attention—thanks to the distracting English Duke—and jerked back when the lead pulled taut.

“Oh, mon dieu—toi petit diable!” she said, rebuking her furry companion, then remembering, she said, “Of course—you want your biscuit.”

She turned to the Duke. “Please may I have them? It is another little routine—he always gets a biscuit halfway round the gardens.”

“But of course—feed le petit diable.” The English noble bowed deeply towards Lutin before rising and retrieving the biscuits from his pocket.

She had to stop herself from laughing. Taking the parcel, she undid the string and drew out one of the canine delights within, requesting her little dog beg for the biscuit before she handed it over.

“Do you often frequent Madame Pertuis’ salons with the Comte?”

Emilie straightened—Lutin having wolfed down a whole biscuit by then—and batted her skirts back into submission before touching a hand to her hat to ensure it was still in place.

“Oui.”

“She appears a popular lady in Paris,” the Duke said. “She told me she has held no less than thirty salons this year alone.”

“Mais oui,” Emilie said, keeping her voice level despite her dislike of the woman rising to the surface. “Madame Pertuis enjoys being the host.” She stopped short of what she really wanted to say.

“So she told me… several times.”

Emilie glanced up at him to see what expression went with his words. There was the veriest gleam in his brown eyes.

“I have no doubt,” she said, an answering curve on her full lips.

Madame Pertuis truly drew out the worst in Emilie. If there was one thing she couldn’t stand, it was self-absorption. It was not that she herself proclaimed immunity from such an affliction, it was part of the human condition, but while some tried to curb the trait, Madame Pertuis appeared to nurture it.

“She also told me about her charitable efforts—estimable, indeed.”

This time Emilie bit her tongue. She had no wish to be bitter, and the fact Madame Pertuis gave to the poor in order to talk about it did not negate the good her generosity did.

“I have never been so over faced by another’s virtues, nor so well-informed about a new acquaintance, in the space of a single evening.”

Emilie began to giggle.

“Ah, I see you are no more fool than I, then. I do not believe I left her establishment with her knowing any more than the name I came with—whilst I can recite her philanthropic endeavours for the past year.”

She finally gave into full-blown laughter.

“I am surprised the Comte de Vergelles does not find the same.”

The Duke’s sudden change in focus did not go unnoticed.

“How long have you and he been going to Madame Pertuis’ soirées?”

“I cannot remember,” Emilie said, the brief bridge of affability built between them severed by her vagueness.

The Duke either did not notice her sudden frostiness or chose to ignore it.

“And when you are not at the salon—what does Mademoiselle Cadeaux and her master like to do?”

Her master? The blunt description hit Emilie hard.

“Oh, please do not be offended,” he said, in reply to her altered expression. “We may be frank—while I do not choose to partake in such activities myself, I understand the arrangement. Being the paid companion of a Comte must have its advantages. There is surely a world of amusement open to you.”

He understood the arrangement. Paid companion. He took no pains to hide the fiscal nature of the situation he assumed was in place. He spoke with such certain cold detachment, and with such obvious distaste, that Emilie felt a sudden rebellious desire not to correct him.

He thought her already mistress to the Comte, not being courted by him for the role, and Tremaine assumed she was brazen enough to discuss it like a business transaction. She wished in that moment she had a thicker skin. She wished that the years of making her way in this difficult world, climbing up from the gutters of Paris to an independent and self-sufficient position, had numbed her to judgement from others. Alas, it had not.

“The theatre—Mademoiselle Saint-Val Cadette’s plays,” she responded, omitting the correction she could have given in that moment. Let him think what he wanted and judge her accordingly. What did his good opinion matter to her?

Any warmth she had felt towards this man in his amusing moments disintegrated. To the Comte she was an object for his pleasure—to this Duke, a fallen woman.

“Indeed? I have not seen her on the stage yet, but I hear great things.”

“Well, you must while you’re in Paris,” Emilie replied, all serene politeness, the raw emotions he had provoked pushed deep below the surface.

“And where is the Comte today? He does not accompany you to purchase Lutin’s biscuits?”

Finally, she saw it. The Duke of Tremaine was not interested in her, who he assumed was a common mistress, a woman who he clearly disdained. No, he was interested in who she was connected to. The Duke was interested in Lucien.

She should have known his seemingly kind and misguided gesture to purchase Lutin’s biscuits had an ulterior motive.

“The Comte de Vergelles does not like animals. I believe he is in the Café Procope. I am to meet him shortly, so if you will excuse me, I shall take my leave. Thank you for the biscuits.” She placed the remainder of the biscuits in their brown paper in her pocket and drew in Lutin’s lead, beckoning the wispy little creature towards her. “Bonjour, Your Grace.”

Emilie curtseyed and turned on her heel before he could reply.