Page 62 of The Runaway Duchess

Good.

“So, does it still remind you of China?” He waved at the alders, at the river glinting as it curved along the bottom of the valley.

“Tremendously.” At once, she assumed her specialist air, gave their surroundings a once-over, and nodded sagely.

Nice try.

“What in particular?” he prodded her, noting the pulse in her eyelid as she gazed down at the moss.

“The woody plants,” she said, and sat up, tucking her legs beneath her. “But also—”

She met his eyes. “Looking at someone’s back as I walk. It’s a very particular sensation.”

He inhaled. Not the squirming evasion he’d expected. No, she’d mounted a flank attack. He’d been behaving badly. He knew that as well as she did. But for just cause.

He’d apologized needlessly to this woman before. She wouldn’t startle him into begging her pardon.

“You don’t mention that sensation in your book.” He lifted a leg, rotated his ankle, which exacerbated the pinch of the cracked leather.

“I don’t mention any sensations in the blasted book.” She scowled. “I told you, that’s the problem with it.”

“A literary problem. But perhaps better for your departed husband’s reputation.” He raised his brows. “It doesn’t sound as though your additions would be complimentary.”

He couldn’t help but glance at her fisted hands, the rings on her fingers. Had she borrowed them—stolen them—to complete her costume, a pretty picture of enticing widowhood? Were they her jewels, relics of her own ill-fated marriage?

She was thinking of a particular man when she spoke about love. She couldn’t have conjured ex nihilo the emotion he’d glimpsed, for example, that night at Crawthevyn Inn, or that evening in Kyncastle.

“I can be scientific about it.” She tossed her head, and a thin lock of hair snaked down around her shoulder. She pushed it behind her ear, lips thinned. “I will replace the chapter on how to pack bulbs with a chapter on how to classify men. Discuss the varieties in terms of characteristics and uses. I’ll have to provide basic descriptions as well. My husband was a showy specimen. You, less so.”

He blinked. Why—she’d insulted his appearance. Good thing he didn’t harbor any illusions in that regard. He’d polished his manners enough to move between worlds, but a man couldn’t do much about his face.

“But it turns out you’ve more similarities than differences,” she continued, then broke off, ripping up a handful of moss.

“We walk too fast,” he offered, and at this bit of glibness, she glanced at him sharply and scrambled to her feet.

“Never mind,” she said, brushing off her skirt.

He stood. “What do we have in common, Mr. Pendrake and myself?”

Surrounded by so much green, her blue eyes looked pure and clear as rainwater.

“You can’t be trusted,” she said.

It was too much. Coming from her, it went beyond boldness. It was insanity. He could not be trusted?

“Clearly, your new chapter is aimed at experts,” he said, biting off the words. “I’m afraid you’ll need to explain your criteria for the benefit of the layman.”

“You lie to yourselves.” She tugged fiercely at a thread dangling near her waist, but her gaze did not leave his. “Which permits you to believe you’re not lying to others. Which means that women end up cruelly deceived, and you think nothing of it.”

“I can’t speak for your husband.” Before he could stop himself, he reached out, stilled and lowered her fingers, snapped the offending thread. “But I’ve never deceived you. If this is about last night, about Laura Odgers, I—”

“I couldn’t care less about Laura Odgers.” Her lips turned down. Not a pout.

Not not a pout.

“Maybe you care for Laura Odgers, maybe you don’t.” She narrowed her eyes. “What matters to you is whether your mother cares for her. Isn’t that what Elizabeth discovered?”

His jaw dropped. He closed his mouth with effort. Closed it hard.