‘I am sure.’ He held out his arm.
After a slight hesitation that had him on tenterhooks, she rested her hand on his arm.
A tactical error. By walking side by side, the only way he could see her expressions was to bend forward to peer around the brim of her bonnet. And wouldn’t that make him look like some callow eager youth. He led her to an arbour where roses grew over a trellis and some thoughtful gardener had set another infernal stone seat. ‘Please, sit for a while. I think you will find the view from here to your taste.’ He flicked his handkerchief over the stone surface to ensure she would not ruin her gown.
She smiled up at him. ‘Thank you.’
Guileless, that smile, and yet it beguiled him none the less.
She perched on the edge of the seat and he sat beside her, angling his body so he could see her profile while she gazed around.
‘I did not expect so large a garden,’ she said. ‘In London, I mean.’
‘When this house was built large gardens were the fashion. This is one of the few streets where they have not been torn down to make way for a square or a terrace. What is left of the garden is only a small part of what was here before.’
‘It is quiet enough to be miles from the city.’
‘You like the country? What county do you hail from?’
‘I have always lived in London, Your Grace.’
‘So, you do know who I am. Will you honour me with your name?’
She froze.
Another rushed fence. Curse it, what was wrong with him? He lightened his tone. ‘Your first name, if you will.’
‘Rose.’
‘It suits you.’
‘Why? Because my face goes red when I am embarrassed?’
He repressed the desire to chuckle at her defensive tone. It seemed they were both less than at ease. ‘No. Because, as you know, a rose is considered the most beautiful of flowers.’
A cheeky grin lit her face. ‘Now that’s what you call flattery, Your Grace, and I would prefer we was...were honest in our dealings.’
The slight slip in her vocabulary stunned him. It was not the sort of thing to fall from a gently bred girl’s lips. Though a foreigner might make such a mistake, he supposed. ‘So exactly where in London do you reside, Rose?’
‘I doubt you would know it, even if I told you.’
Or perhaps he was wrong; she certainly sounded haughty enough to be the daughter of a nobleman.
‘Are you married?’ The question had plagued him from the moment they met.
Surprise filled her expression. ‘Mercy, certainly not.’
‘So tell me why you were here at the Vitium? Who brought you?’
‘I came by myself, on my own two feet.’
He shook his head. She would not win in a war of words. ‘Only patrons and their guests are permitted through these hallowed portals.’
She laughed out loud. ‘Hallowed. I think not.’
Again, every word was formed with care. Perhaps she was the daughter of some foreign dignitary. Or a very accomplished actress.
He stretched out his legs. ‘I am glad you came.’
‘Me, too. I wasn’t sure you were real. Half the time our dance seemed like a dream.’
He cocked a brow. ‘A good dream, I hope?’
Gah, really? He was actually fishing for compliments?
‘A lovely dream.’
He found himself tongue-tied by the sweet smile on her pretty lips, the genuine light in her eyes and the blush on her cheek. He wanted to kiss her lips. Badly.
‘Shall we walk some more?’
She popped up on her feet. ‘I would like that. Do you know the name of all these plants and bushes?’
‘Some of them, certainly.’
* * *
Rose still could not believe she was doing this. Walking with her hand on the arm of a duke. Conversing as if it was an everyday thing. At any moment he would guess she was an impostor in borrowed clothes and revile her. She’d likely lose her job, too.
What had she done?
She’d let Flo and the other girls talk her into borrowing a gown suitable enough to wear for her gentleman, and helping her with her hair. After all, they had said, twittering in excitement, she had helped them so many times. Gloves had appeared on her hands and parasol on her arm and all topped off by a straw bonnet they all declared was fetching.
Fine feathers did not make a fine bird or a sow’s ear a silk purse, but she had desperately wanted to be convinced. Silly goose.
Or she had until she reached the gate.
If Flo hadn’t pushed her through, she would have fled.
Now she wished she had run, because she had the sense he was not all that glad to see her. He seemed more reserved than he had the other night, cooler, more distant.
‘I really didn’t expect you to be here, you know,’ she said, lifting her chin.
‘You think I would not keep my word?’
Oh, now he sounded insulted. An angry duke was not a good thing. She straightened her shoulders. ‘That is not what I meant, Your Grace. It was I who failed to keep our...’ What did one call it?
‘Our assignation.’ He said it casually as if it meant little of import.
Assignation. She savoured the word and stored it away for future consideration.
‘So, you see,’ she said, ‘I assumed you would have far more important things to do beside wait for me.’
A brow quirked as if her words surprised him. ‘You are here now.’
Blasted man, could he be any more stiff and starchy? The silence grew heavy. It must be her turn to say something. Oh, dear. What did one discuss with a duke? ‘I...um...what sort of tree is this?’ She gazed up into the leafy branches that cast a gentle dappled shade over the gravel walk.
‘Beech.’
Trees were trees. Though she did know there were different kinds, she had no idea how to tell them apart. She’d seen little enough of them as a child and not much more since starting her employment. ‘How do you know?’
While he looked a little taken aback, he stopped to poke at a crack in the paving slabs with the toe of his boot. A strange little shell rolled out, brown and prickly and curling away from the centre. ‘For one thing, this is its fruit. A beech nut, if you will.’ He pointed at the trunk. ‘The bark is distinctive, as are its leaves.’ He reached up and pulled down a branch so she could see close up. ‘Other trees have serrated leaves, but the combination of all three tells me this is a beech.’
‘Did you learn that at school?’ The orphanage had taught her to read uplifting sermons and her bible, and how to do sums, but most of her education had been about making herself useful to people with money. Plying a needle, making tallow candles and soap. Sometimes one of the guardians had loaned her other things to read, Gothic tales and such, but the matron had stopped it, said it had given her ideas above her station. Improving texts were best for the likes of her.
But those glimpses into other realms had made her realise that if she wanted to get on in the world she needed to improve herself. She’d emulated the speech of the grand ladies who sometimes came to do charity work among the orphans and read everything she could get her hands on whenever she had a spare