Page 93 of The Runaway Duchess

He and Muriel had plant hunted happily. They’d traveled to the very tip of the Lizard peninsula and all the way back to London in companionate tranquility. She was levelheaded and knowledgeable and continued to show herself a far livelier conversationalist than the dullest pages of her manuscript predicted. When they’d discussed that manuscript, and he’d shared—haltingly—his suggestions for revision, she’d thanked him warmly.

“The libretto requires one more reversal.” Alan recalled his attention by rapping the doorframe with the top of his walking stick. “The amorous pairs must swap partners.” He swung the stick to the right. “Mrs. Pendrake with the husband of the false Mrs. Pendrake. The false Mrs. Pendrake . . .” He swung the stick to the left so it thumped Neal’s chest. “With you.”

“Bloody hell.” Neal knocked away the stick.

“She’s the Pendrake I want to meet.” Alan delivered two more raps to the doorframe. “I salute the intelligence that can improvise. She’s wasted on that husband, clearly. But then, I expect she’d be wasted on you as well.”

“How wasted?” Neal couldn’t bite back the words in time.

Christ. Could he have sounded more like a jealous lover?

Alan grinned. He enjoyed setting traps. But when he spoke, his tone was almost gentle. “Your goal is to find a like-minded mate and settle down. You told me as much. That was the impetus for your little botanical junket.”

Sunlight flashed on the lens of his pince-nez as he pivoted toward the garden. “In real life, old boy, you marry the imitable botanist, Mrs. Muriel Pendrake.”

One last rap to the doorframe and he stepped out onto the path.

He’d always had a penchant for dramatic exits.

Neal walked after him, and Alan slanted him an amused look. “What did you say her name was, the false Mrs. Pendrake?”

Neal glared. “Lavinia.” As though Alan had forgotten it. He forgot nothing, the smug bastard.

“And you’re convinced she returned to her husband?”

“Perfectly.” Neal spoke through clenched jaws. The showy rogue had betrayed her, but clearly, she still cherished their attachment. At the Red Lion in Truro, he’d heard it in her voice. The wish she’d made had been for George.

“He’s a libertine? Young and handsome?”

“Stop it already with the bloody Socratic method,” Neal growled at him. “But yes, she gave me the distinct impression that he is a pretty, philandering blackguard who has many times over abused her trust.”

“So they’ve been married a good while, or a bad while as the case may be.” Alan said it musingly.

Neal hesitated. If Alan could figure out who she was . . . Blast. He did—and didn’t—want to know. He bit his tongue, hoping didn’t want would win.

“I believe his name is George.” He supplied the last piece of information at his disposal, and, God help him, he hung on Alan’s next words with bated breath.

Alan stopped walking. The sun licked up all the shadows, and the day baked with unseasonable heat. He didn’t look uncomfortable despite his full-skirted frock coat. He considered Neal coolly, then slowly shook his head.

“The details don’t correspond to any couple of my acquaintance.” He seemed, though, to give it more thought, brows drawn together. Something had fired in his mind.

Neal flattened his lips. What did it matter if Alan identified her? She was married. She’d returned to her husband. What else was there to know?

Nonetheless, he couldn’t tear his eyes from Alan’s face.

A buzzing fly broke the spell. Alan batted it away, as though he were batting away the whole train of thought. He scowled down at a rosebush. “What’s wrong with these blasted roses?”

Neal breathed out through his nose.

“Slugs,” he said at last, drawing up to Alan and considering the leaves.

Alan picked one and held it up to the cloudless sky. Blue shone through the holes.

He brought the leaf closer to the lens of his pince-nez, then lowered it, sighing.

“Punctuality isn’t Mrs. Pendrake’s forte, is it?” He handed Neal the leaf. “You don’t think she called at the house?”

Neal gazed across the lawn, at Umfreville House, the London seat of the Dukes of Umfreville. Alan had taken up residence when his elder brother, the current duke, went abroad with his family.