Page 8 of Duke of Wickedness (Regency Gods #4)

A riadne had a lot of things on her mind, which was what led to her being the first person to ever be surprised by Lord Hershire, a man who, no matter what flaws he might have, was as transparent as the finest glass.

She hadn’t minded that before. Funny how it bothered her now.

“Good day, Lady Ariadne,” the viscount said, giving her a proper bow when he came during the proper visiting hours, bearing a bouquet of hothouse flowers that, if a bit worse for wear, were not entirely outside of the bounds of what was correct and right for this kind of situation.

“Good day, my lord,” she said, offering her equally correct curtsey. “Thank you so much for the flowers. How considerate of you.”

She took them and placed them off to the side. The prescribed actions felt strangely itchy, like there was a spot between her shoulder blades that she couldn’t quite reach.

But Ariadne was a fine young lady, and fine young ladies were trained for nothing as much as bearing discomfort without flinching.

“Of course,” the viscount returned. “I am afraid I did not know your especial favorites, so I selected something that I would like to have displayed in my own home.”

Inwardly, Ariadne paused on this. Was he saying that, if they were to wed, he would want her to have ugly, sad decorations around the house?

It wasn’t as though she objected to a wood anemone on principle—and this was what he’d brought her, though she doubted he’d be able to name the bloom himself.

It was a perfectly cheerful little wildflower in most cases.

But it was past the season for them, and these blooms showed it. She wouldn’t be surprised if they started dropping petals within the hour.

So what did he mean by choosing them?

As soon as the thought crossed her mind, she shook herself.

He didn’t mean anything by it at all. He wasn’t the mysterious and beguiling Duke of Wilds—which was a good thing , she reminded herself sternly.

He was just a man who spoke openly and clearly about his wants. He was uncomplicated. Easy to know.

Movement out of the corner of Ariadne’s eye caught her attention. Helen, again acting as chaperone, had looked up from where she was embroidering in the corner, which made Ariadne realize that she’d been standing and staring at the flowers for too long.

She turned back to the viscount and gave him a winsome smile.

“My apologies, my lord,” she said. “I was woolgathering about flowers, inspired by your gift.”

The faintly worried furrow to his brow smoothed at once.

“No apology necessary,” he said affably. “I do know how ladies get about their flowers.”

It wasn’t a cruel comment. He wasn’t trying to put her down. But somehow, the fact that the viscount really thought that women frequently went into raptures about flowers so intense that they forgot themselves…

Well, Ariadne could not help but be irked.

Had the viscount always been so…bland? He was like the gentleman’s equivalent of nursery food, the sort that you got after a bout of stomach flu. Blancmange, beef tea, and crackers with no butter. All well and good in small doses, but could she live off such fare?

But she was being fanciful again, most likely.

Besides. The viscount had hidden depths. He had practically admitted as much.

So she pushed down her irritation and smiled again.

“I appreciate your understanding. Shall we sit?”

He was agreeable in this, as in apparently all things, so they sat, and she summarily poured tea, just as a young lady ought to do.

They sipped appropriate, small sips, and talked about nothing—about the weather (God help her), about how his horse had thrown a shoe but was thankfully uninjured, about how the viscount’s cook had recently purchased a most very fine cut of beef, and hadn’t he enjoyed that very much?

It practically put Ariadne to sleep. Or maybe that was just because she hadn’t slept particularly well the night before, her mind buzzing over that kiss?—

Which was inappropriate to think about in any circumstances, let alone while she was meant to be entertaining another suitor.

Though this did bring her to the matter of something else she wished to learn about the viscount.

“My lord,” she interjected politely when he threatened to go into a third straight minute extolling the virtues of his cook’s purchases at the butcher shop, “might I ask you something?”

He looked at her with the approval that one might offer a particularly bright child.

“Of course!”

She chose her words carefully. “The other night, you mentioned…that there were certain things you might wish to conceal from a wife,” she said eventually.

“I do not mean to imply that I would not offer you your privacy, were any such union come to pass between us, but… I should like to have some greater sense of what you meant by that.”

She had very intentionally kept her query vague. Though she did maintain that a wife ought to have some idea of what her husband’s needs might be, she didn’t wish to embarrass the viscount.

Besides, it wasn’t as though she felt she wanted to be privy to all his secrets—either before a marriage or after. Unless one had a great love match, one very likely kept certain parts of oneself tucked away, only to be examined in private.

But if he meant—as she very much suspected that he did—that he had certain desires when it came to matters between men and women…

Well, that she ought to know, certainly.

But the viscount’s open, friendly expression had folded, leaving a disapproving, disappointed look in its place.

“My lady,” he said in the firmest tone she had ever heard from him, “while I understand that my comments might have elicited curiosity, I must insist that you forget any such ruminations. This is not something I will discuss with you further.”

There really was no room for argument in this. Ariadne should have just accepted it.

But it wasn’t the viscount’s words that echoed most clearly in her ears in that moment.

It was the duke’s.

I saw your curiosity—and I do not blame you for it. Indeed, I think it likely that there are many young ladies in your position, women who wish to know more about what transpires between lovers.

She did want to know more—both in the general sense that had been excited by what she’d seen at the duke’s house and in the specific sense of what she might be asked to see or do if she married this man in particular.

So, she pressed.

“I understand your reticence,” she said delicately, “but don’t you think a courtship should include such things—so that two people might know if they are compatible with one another?”

“Lady Ariadne, you really must desist,” the viscount returned, looking agitated. “I shall not be responsible for your ruination! I positively refuse; I could not bear it.”

Ariadne glanced over at Helen, who, in the grand tradition of chaperones, was half asleep over her embroidery. Poor little lamb.

“I don’t think a conversation would be my ruination,” she said gently. “For one, I don’t think we would be overheard. For another, my sister is hardly likely to run to the gossip rags even if she did.”

The viscount, however, was already shaking his head.

“It’s not about the scandal,” he said, sounding disappointed that she would even suspect such a thing. “It is about your moral character . I told you: a wife is the heart of the home. Her mind must remain pure and unsullied so that she may pass that gentility to her children.”

Ariadne must have been staring at him, wide-eyed, because he kept explaining.

“So it is not about what the ton considers to be ruination or not. It is about the natural roles of men and women. I will not render you unsuitable to be a wife by filling your mind with sordidness. That is a burden for men, with our unruly natures and physical needs. But you are a member of the gentler sex. You must maintain your purity.”

He said all this with the air of a man who was sharing crucial information that he was frankly surprised she did not already possess. His tone was faintly pitying, like she had been failed by someone.

In fairness, Ariadne’s mother had been a reasonably absent figure in her childhood, but while the Dowager Duchess of Godwin could be blamed for many things, Ariadne refused to lay this particular blame at her mother’s door.

No, this was entirely the fault of Lord Hershire—and whatever man (she had no doubt it was a man) had given him such appalling, limiting ideas about women.

“I see.” It was all she could manage. And, in all honesty, it was not very convincing, either—she was certain that her disgust was apparent in her tone.

But the viscount offered her a relieved smile anyway.

“I knew you would understand,” he said, sounding as though this was the highest praise he knew how to give.

Ariadne, who didn’t understand in the least, showed him her teeth. She couldn’t properly call the expression a smile.

“Of course,” she said. “I should like to…ruminate on your words.”

As she had expected, this pleased the man. She could practically see what he was picturing—her, on her knees in a chapel, hands clasped beneath her chin as she thanked the good Lord above for sending her such a wise, benevolent man as Lord Hershire in order to show her the error of her wicked ways.

“Your consideration does me honor, my lady,” he said.

“I have said it before, but you must permit me to say it again; you are the most noble and pleasant of young ladies. I shall call upon you again in due course. Perhaps, in the interim, you will read some edifying moral texts, and you can share with me what you have uncovered.”

His eyes gleamed with a kind of fervor, and Ariadne realized that he didn’t just want her so-called moral purity because he thought it was important for her and any potential offspring she might produce. He sought her goodness to redeem him as well.

All without giving up his vices, I gather, she thought sourly.

“Perhaps,” she said, letting her tone make it sound like an agreement.