Page 20 of The Runaway Duchess

“Why do you stand there like that?” she’d snapped. “I’m not a cat to be herded out the door. If you want to go, go, but don’t tap your foot at me. I won’t be rushed along. Besides, I’ve better things to do than botanize a blasted heath!”

As she’d swept past him into the bar, his expression had registered shock, and something else. Why, he’d rather resembled a jilted lover. She’d almost whirled around and thrown down the gauntlet. If you want to make love to Mrs. Pendrake, say so and do let’s stay inside. No need to muddy ourselves digging up violets. Luckily, she’d mastered herself. Better not to talk about making love. Or, for that matter, to talk about “Mrs. Pendrake” in the third person. She hadn’t whirled. She’d processed grandly through the empty room and sat at the largest table, where she was served a lowering meal of hard bread and ripe cheese.

Neal certainly didn’t mope like a jilted lover. The pique he’d seemed to feel at her behavior had blown by. His smile was open and his step undeniably jaunty. She wondered if he might be the least broody soul she’d ever encountered. In her world, everyone made a game of nursing grudges. Maybe as a nurseryman, he was too busy watering the plants.

“How was it? The botanizing?” She pointed at the long metal box that hung at his hip. “Did you fill your vasculum?” She felt a strange thrill as she said the word. At least she’d gleaned something from “Recollections.” Vasculum. And that cloth-wrapped rectangle hanging from his other shoulder—that was a portfolio.

“Not bad for a blasted heath,” he said, grinning as color flooded her cheeks. “I did get lashed by rain. But I found a few decent samples for the herbarium.”

“Of course, I normally wake much earlier.” She looked straight ahead so the curve of her bonnet hid her eyes. “On other occasions, I will be eager to join you.”

Oh, stuff. She didn’t have much experience with apologies. She could only hope she’d landed in the general vicinity.

“Teasing,” he said. “It’s one of my many bad habits. Easy to acquire if you’re the youngest of five, and I never even bothered to resist. Impatience is another of my faults. I’m sorry I was waiting for you this morning with such obvious ill grace.”

She blinked, angling her head to look at him. He apologized very neatly.

“When you asked for your manuscript last night . . .” He shrugged, adjusting the strap of the vasculum with long, skillful fingers. “I should have inferred you’d want to spend the day correcting those errors you mentioned.”

About that manuscript.

“What do you think of my ‘Recollections’?” The ground was sloping up now, a gradual rise that would lead them to the back garden. She slowed their pace. His smile shifted, became a touch more complex.

“It’s wonderful,” he said smoothly. “Brilliant. A milestone in botanical literature. You’d asked me about possible publishers. I thought I might put you in touch with my friend Alan De’Ath. He’s an art critic, not an editor, but he knows all the literary people. He’s also—”

She interrupted. “You do think it should be published, then? You don’t find it irredeemably dull?”

She stopped, catching her breath. She wasn’t hardened to all this tramping over varied terrain. He stopped too. The clouds shifted overhead and a beam of sun slanted across his face. He could afford to go hatless. He didn’t freckle but tanned evenly. When they caught the light, his irises looked warm, bright. She hadn’t realized brown eyes could be so bright.

“I don’t know what you mean.” He gave her a quizzical glance. “The book is comprehensive, but—”

“I mean the writing,” she said. “The sentences! They go on and on and on. I found one that ran across three pages and half of it was Latin. You said you read every word. You didn’t once cry for mercy?”

“Cry for mercy?” He laughed, realized she was serious, and sobered, eyes narrow. “Of course I didn’t. Writers are always severe with their own work. When we were at Oxford, Alan drew a pistol and shot one of his manuscripts. He might have been rusticated, or even expelled, but during the disciplinary proceedings, the manuscript came before the dean, who was so impressed he gave Alan a prize.”

She rolled her eyes. “Bullets aren’t known for handily dispatching paper. I think your friend Alan wanted to get his manuscript in front of the dean. Otherwise he would have thrown it into the fire.” Lord knew she’d burned stories, poems, and love letters enough to heat a country home through a year of Januarys. “That is the preferred method.”

Neal whistled through his teeth. “Just like Alan too. I never thought of it.” He shook his head, sunstruck eyes glinting. “Aren’t you clever.”

She looked away. Devious was more like it.

“Teasing again,” he said. “You’re more than clever. As for your ‘Recollections,’ I respect the erudition.”

“Blast the erudition!” She glared at him. “I say very explicitly in the preface that my intention in writing is to capture the bold and energizing spirit of the age of botanical discovery.” She was quoting now. “It’s not meant to be an erudite book but an energizing one. Something to thrill readers and inspire new enterprises. Were you thrilled?”

“I was thrilled, yes.” He rubbed the bridge of his nose. He was a big, strong man in a vast, open space, but suddenly he looked cornered. “Perhaps it’s a bit technical for the nonprofessional reader.”

“The chapter on how to pack bulbs?”

“Not the strongest of the chapters,” he murmured.

“The hundred-page list of shrubs?”

“Several of them invaluable introductions.” He frowned. “Encountering them in print, all together, does require a certain fortitude.”

“You promised to discuss it with me.” Now that she saw weakness, she bore down with all her might. “Was your idea of discussion a few blandishments? I set out to write an adventure. The book is a patent failure on its own terms! Were you not going to tell me? Is that the measure of your respect?”

“Christ.” His brow knotted. Eyes narrowed, he cut a look at her through his lashes. She ignored the flutter in her stomach. Bizarre. She’d begun her line of questioning in an attempt to validate her own struggle with the manuscript. She’d wanted to enlist Neal against Mrs. Pendrake for the secret gratification of her own sensibility. But suddenly, she seemed to be arguing for Mrs. Pendrake, as Mrs. Pendrake. A woman who deserved honesty from her colleagues. Not mollycoddling.