Page 6 of The Runaway Duchess

“Oh. I’m not . . .” She tugged her hands from his with odd reluctance, but before she could continue, his expression changed, eyes narrowing with concern as he examined her. She fought the instinct to duck her head. How embarrassing. To make an introduction—even as someone else—with red lumps disfiguring her face. But there was something almost soothing about his intent, methodical inspection. She lifted her chin and returned his regard.

His face was completely ordinary. Somewhat square. Nose overlarge. Ordinary brown eyes. She was used to men who composed their features, who held their heads at the angles that made the most of their jawlines, who paid good pounds sterling to have their hair styled until it achieved a manly artlessness. George had been a peacock.

This man was utterly devoid of artifice. Artifice, it turned out, came in useful. Deployed to attract, it also created a buffer.

Their eyes met. He was very close, and his gaze was very direct. She dropped her eyes. Good Lord. He was wearing gaiters.

“Looks painful,” he said. “Was it the Alstroemeria?”

At this extraordinary question, she looked up. Their eyes met again. Ordinary brown. It was only the fringe of dark lashes that gave them such shadowy depth. She cleared her throat.

“In fact . . .” She paused and settled on the truth. “It was strawberries.”

At this, he stepped back, brow furrowed. “You were breeding strawberries? What varieties? Was it the leaves?”

“Breeding?” She blinked. “No. Eating. I was eating them.” As one did.

His face cleared. “Ah. A dietary complaint. I feared the lilies I’d sent had caused the irritation.”

He mistook her incredulous expression.

“Of course you know the sap is an irritant.” He gave a rueful shake of his head. “I didn’t mean to suggest you wouldn’t have handled the specimens properly. But the sap spreads. I’ve gotten festering boils from it myself, in the damnedest places.”

“Have you,” she said faintly, but if he heard the reproach implied by her tone, he made no sign.

“When did the reaction start?”

“Yesterday.” She shifted uncomfortably. He was altogether too frank. And what sort of man sent a woman lilies as a specimen instead of in a bouquet?

“Then the worst is over.” The assurance in his voice made her swallow hard. Of course, this misguided stranger hadn’t the faintest understanding of her situation. The worst was yet to come.

Suddenly, the platform began to vibrate. The train roared to life. She’d been gone too long. At any moment, Nan would come to collect her, or worse, Cranbrook himself.

“Most women would have taken a few days to recover,” he said. “But then, most women wouldn’t have trekked through the Tapa Shan mountains during a relapse of pernicious malaria.”

What on earth? She turned to stare at him. Was Mrs. Pendrake an explorer? A brigadier general? Whatever she was, one thing was clear: this man respected her. His tone had been teasing but laced with appreciation.

“Not women,” he corrected himself. “Nessa and Jenni would have my head for that. Few people are possessed of your mettle. Actually, the majority of the ones I can think of are women. My mother was scaling cliffs into her fifties.”

At that, he grinned. White teeth against tanned skin. Heaven help her, there was nothing ordinary about that grin. How had she, Lavinia Yardley, who had always considered herself an excellent judge of gentlemen, assigned him such middling marks? Was it because he wasn’t a gentleman? Or was it because she was no longer Lavinia Yardley?

And what if she wasn’t? Wasn’t Lavinia Yardley, or the Duchess of Cranbrook, but someone else?

Dear God, if she could only be the redoubtable woman this man so admired. She’d prefer the Tapa Shan mountains to Cranbrook’s estate in Fowey.

Her heart accelerated.

His smile widened. She could see quite a bit of his neck above that ludicrous kerchief. Inexcusable, really. But this was Cornwall, not Rotten Row. And his neck was not exactly an eyesore.

“You’re a legend, Mrs. Pendrake.” He shook his head, lips still quirked. “I don’t know that I would have continued into Mongolia if wolves had eaten my donkey.”

She snorted. Mrs. Pendrake sounded more like a lunatic than a legend.

“Very sensible,” she said. “I hope your indomitable mother, too, would think twice.”

“Doubtful.” He laughed, then sobered.

“You and your husband both.” He held himself straighter as he said it. “Legends. I mean that sincerely.” He did. She couldn’t doubt his sincerity. His face was like an open book. An open book with slightly foxed pages. The sun-browned skin, the lines around his eyes. He’d grown into that face, and it reflected his thoughts, his emotions. The moment felt too sincere.