She pretended to inspect the roses in the front garden, a pair of snipping scissors in hand, never mind that no self-respecting gardener ever did her cuttings in the middle of the afternoon. Her heart thumped as he came around the bend in the path at his usual hour. But by the time she'd maneuvered herself next to the low gate by the path, she barely got a “good afternoon” out of him before he sailed on past.
The next day she waited near the front of the garden, to no better results. The duke refused to be drawn into chitchat. Her comment on the weather only garnered the same “good afternoon” as the day before. For three days after that it rained. He walked in mackintosh and galoshes. But she could not possibly work in the garden—or even pretend to—in a downpour.
She gritted her teeth and decided to make an even greater nuisance of herself. She would walk with him. As God was her witness, she would bag, truss, and deliver this duke to Gigi at whatever cost to her own dignity.
Clad in a white walking dress and sensible walking boots, she waited in the front parlor of the cottage. When he appeared around the bend in the distance, she pounced, her tassel-fringed parasol in tow.
“I've decided to take up some exercise myself, Your Grace.” She smiled as she closed the garden gate behind her. “Do you mind if I walk with you?”
He raised a pair of pince-nez from around his neck and looked down at her through the lenses. Goodness gracious but the man was ducal in every little gesture. He was not unusually tall, about five foot ten, but one chill look from him and the Colossus of Rhodes would feel like a midget.
He didn't give express permission. He merely dropped the pince-nez and nodded, murmuring, “Madam.” And immediately resumed his walk, leaving Victoria to scamper in his wake, hurrying to catch up.
She had known, of course, that he walked fast. But it didn't dawn upon her until she'd tried to catch up with him for ten minutes just how fast he walked. For a rare moment she wished she had Gigi's tremendous height instead of her own more demure five feet two inches.
Chucking aside all ladylike restraints, she broke into a half run, cursing the narrow confines of her skirts, and finally ended up at his side. She had prepared various openings, bits and pieces of local trivia. But by the time she finished enumerating interesting packets of historical details concerning the house next down the lane, she'd be five feet behind him again. And having been very ladylike all her life, she wasn't sure she could manage another run without expiring of apoplexy.
So she got to the point. “Would you care for dinner at my house two weeks from Wednesday, Your Grace? My daughter will be visiting that week. I'm sure she'd be delighted to meet you.”
She'd have to go up to London and drag Gigi down. But that she'd worry about later.
“I am a very fussy eater, Mrs. Rowland, and usually do not enjoy meals prepared by anyone but my own cook.”
Drat it. Why must he be so difficult? What did a woman have to do to get him into her house? Dance naked in front of him? Then no doubt he'd complain of vertigo.
“I'm sure we could—”
“But I might consider accepting your invitation if you would grant me a favor in return.”
If it weren't so darned exhausting to keep up with him, she'd have halted in her tracks, stunned. “I would be honored. What might I do for you, Your Grace?”
“I am an admirer of the peace and quiet of the country life, as you well know,” he said. Did she detect a trace of sarcasm in his voice? “But even the most ardent admirer of the country life sometimes misses the pleasures of the town.”
“Indeed.”
“I haven't gambled for the past fifteen years.”
This duke, a gambler? But he was a recluse, a Homeric scholar with his nose buried in old parchment. “I see,” she said, though she didn't.
“I hear the siren call of a green baize table. But I do not wish to go to London to satisfy myself. Will you be so gracious as to play a few hands with me?”
This time she did come to a dead stop. “Me? Gamble?”
She had never even bet a shilling. Gambling, in her opinion, was about the daftest thing a woman could do, other than divorcing a man who would one day be a duke.
“Of course, I would understand if you object to—”
“Not at all,” she heard herself say. “I have no objections whatsoever to a bit of harmless betting.”
“I like it more interesting than that,” he said. “One thousand pounds a hand.”
“And I admire men who play for high stakes,” she squeaked.
What was wrong with her? When she accepted giving up her dignity, she hadn't planned on surrendering every last ounce of her good sense as well. And lying outright, complimenting him on the most foolish, most self-destructive trait a man could possess! There came a time in every good Protestant's life when she yearned for a simple, sin-absolving trip to the papists' confession booth.
“Very well, then.” The Duke of Perrin nodded his approval. “Shall we set a date and a time?”
Chapter Ten
January 1883