Page 31 of How Not to Marry a Duke

He wondered what more she wanted to know for her to be comfortable with their arrangement. He’d shown her a glimpse into his life. She should be grateful he’d rescued her from Lord Foster’s plans.

They walked down the gravel path, and sunlight glinted off her hair. Pulled back in a bun, it was a glorious rich chestnut. Stray wisps curled around her cheeks and nape, and he knew—from the time he’d interrupted her argument with her brother—the curly tresses reached her waist.

Her skin was a shade darker than the porcelain complexion of the London ladies of his acquaintance. Because of her coloring, one might assume that she had deep brown eyes. Instead, her eyes were a remarkable vivid blue. He could spend a good amount of time deciding on the precise shade.

He swallowed and refocused on the task at hand. He was never one to be distracted by a woman’s beauty. God only knew, he’d been surrounded by plenty of lovely debutants and widows ever since he’d come of age. A duke, especially a duke as rich as Croesus, was a catch. He recalled, at his first ball, feeling as if he were a fox pursued by an avid pack of hounds. His anxiety hadn’t improved at his second ball. He never gave a third a chance.

Science had called to him and, despite his godmother’s displeasure, he’d isolated himself as much as possible and avoided the bevy of balls, routs, garden parties, and whatever trifling entertainment members of the ton flocked to each Season.

Yet here he was trying to persuade the daughter of an earl, the sister of his former school nemesis, to agree to a false courtship. A thought occurred to him. “I shall visit you tomorrow.”

She blinked. “Why?”

“You have seen my work. I have yet to see yours.” His reasons were simple and rational.

“I do not have a workshop.”

“You have herbs and medicines.” He touched his freshly bandaged arm. In two days’ time, his arm felt better and her treatment had proven more effective than a month’s worth of an expensive London doctor.

Adeline pursed her lips as they passed by well-trimmed hedgerows. “Let me see if I understand. You would like to learn about my herbs, tonics, poultices, and medicines?”

“Yes.”

“And you believe that will help with our ruse?”

“I wouldn’t define it as a ‘ruse,’ but yes. You pointed out that we know little about each other.”

“Your workshop and my herbs are not exactly what I had in mind.”

“What else is there but our work?” Science was an important part of his life. He thought she understood.

She halted and glowered up at him. “Are you serious? Our work is not everything. We must be able to pass muster when we return to Town. You are no stranger to London.”

“Since I rarely attend functions, it’s normally not a problem.”

“But you must attend family dinners. Go out with friends. Escape to your clubs. Make an appearance at some social events. You are a duke, after all!”

“My title has nothing to do with our arrangement.” At times he resented inheriting the dukedom. If he were a commoner, he would have more personal freedom and could choose whether or not he married. There would be no pressure to produce an heir and a spare.

She shook her head. “For a man who says he values rational thought, you are speaking nonsense.”

“How so?”

“Even in the country your title is important. It’s not something you can shed or ignore. Villagers will respect you and address you differently. Once we return to Town, everyone will be abuzz that the Duke of Warwick is engaged.”

A muscle twitched by his eye. She could be infuriating. He didn’t need reminding of the gossipmongers. “What I mean to say is that I pick and choose which Society events to attend. I’ve never found dinner parties, garden teas, and most manner of London events entertaining. Especially balls.” He hated the small talk, the crush of the crowd, the odor of perspiring bodies and heavy perfume, the awkwardness of asking wallflowers to dance. Frustration was evident in his voice.

“Entertaining or not, we will have to attend them together,” she said.

“Fine. Meanwhile, expect me mid-afternoon tomorrow.”

Her two delicate eyebrows drew together. “That’s feeding time for Henry.”

“Who’s Hen—“ He stiffened. “Oh,” he said, unable to come up with a coherent justification for disturbing the feeding time of her pet pig.

“Would you like to watch me feed my pig?” Her tone was light.

“To be truthful, no.”