Page 29 of The Duke's Promise to Her Child
“Is that not what most women do?”
“I am not most women.”
Something flashed across his face. She could not quite name it. It was peculiar — as though he was pained and relieved at the same time.
“Is something the matter?”
“No. It is just that I had thought most women were quite familiar with the concept of pretending to be someone else in orderto catch the attention of an eligible gentleman, only to reveal themselves after the fact.”
“No,” she said. “That is dreadful. I do not care for people who pretend to be someone they are not. It is the worst thing you can do to another person, to present yourself in a certain way only to change when it suits you.”
She heard the anger rising in her voice and pushed it down. This was not an area she wished to discuss with him. Thankfully, it appeared neither did he.
“One would have to have a very black heart and a nonexistent soul to do such a thing.”
“Indeed,” she replied — but felt there was something more between them now. Something unspoken. As if he had shared something with her without quite meaning to. As if she had too. It was time to lighten the mood once more.
“Well,” she said, looking to distract him. “What should I do if the gentleman I am speaking with wishes to discuss nothing but crop rotation?”
That did the trick. He looked at her, his eyebrows rising so high that he looked most alarmed. “Who wishes to discuss crop rotation?”
“A gentleman you introduced me to not a week ago. When we walked in Hyde Park.”
He dipped his head to the side as though he had to think about who that gentleman was. There had been a number by now.
“Well that was a poor choice on my part. Do not fret — I will do better in future. But should you find yourself in conversation with somebody who has such poor taste in subject matter, it is always safe to divert them to something more agreeable. A novel you have read, for example. Although perhaps not that Gothic one you were reading. I borrowed it from the circulating library, it is quite dark and, I must say.”
“You read it?” she said. “I am surprised. You strike me as someone who engages in reading poetry with the sole purpose of reciting it to ladies in order to convince them to fall for your charm.”
“I beg your pardon,” he said, sounding genuinely offended. “I have no need of poetry to convince a lady of my charms. My charms are quite natural.”
“Are they?” she said. “Sometimes I find them lacking.”
“You do?”
“Yes. Such as when you tell me that the manner in which I greet visitors at my own home is wrong, for example.”
“Well, it was,” he said with a shrug. “And I must tell you, while we are at it. You ought to never insult a gentleman’s charms. We do not take it well.”
“I shall take note,” she said. “Now is this a lesson completed?”
“Not yet,” he said, with his best attempt at gravity. “We are just getting started. Now, imagine we are at a ball.”
“We were already at a ball,” she replied.
“Imagine we are at another ball. And a gentleman asks you to dance.”
“Well, if a gentleman asks me to dance I will of course agree,” she said.
“Very good.” He held out his hands and she looked at him, perplexed.
“May I remind you we are not in a ballroom at present.”
“No, we are not. But we should practice all the same. Imagine you can hear the gentle tones of a string quartet.” He placed his hands on her in a manner that seemed highly inappropriate, and yet she could not deny that she liked it. His hands were strong and warm — so warm she could feel it through the fabric of her dress.
“What dance is this?” she asked.
“The waltz,” he replied. “It is very fashionable these days.”
