He, on the other hand, dug in his heels and defended the thesis of friendship. Romantic love as Western civilization currently understood it did not emerge until the Middle Ages. Who was to say that masculine friendship, in an epoch before a man saw home and hearth as the anchor of his existence, couldn't have been deeper and more emotional?
Today, on a short stroll through his gardens, they'd disagreed on a host of topics already, from the merits of the metric system to the merits of George Bernard Shaw. The duke felt no compunction in calling a few of her opinions preposterous. She, to her own pleasant surprise, gave no quarter and labeled some of his views as downright asinine, in exactly so many words, to his face.
“I've never heard so many contrary opinions in my entire life,” he remarked as they neared the house.
“Alas,” she teased him, “what a sheltered life you've led, sir.”
He looked startled for a moment. “A sheltered life? I suppose you aren't entirely incorrect. But still, shouldn't a genteelly raised woman such as yourself at least make an effort to agree with me?”
“Only if I'm out to ensnare you, Your Grace.”
“You are not?” He turned a baleful gaze on her.
She batted her eyelashes. “Why would I want to put up with a man as disagreeable as yourself when I already have all the advantages of wealth and a future duke for a son-in-law?”
“For now.”
“Oh, have you not heard, then? My daughter has released Lord Frederick from their engagement. Furthermore, she departed this morning on the Lucania for New York City, where her husband resides.”
“And that has slaked your blood thirst for a duke of your own?”
“Temporarily,” she said modestly.
He harrumphed. The duke had a soft spot for all things ludicrous. Between the two of them, her not-quite hunting of him had become an ongoing joke.
She smiled. Despite his dissolute past, his ever-present hauteur, and his great fondness for intimidating lesser mortals, he'd turned out to be quite a decent chap. His attention flattered, but the gratification extended far beyond the stroking of her vanity. She took genuine pleasure in his company, in the thoughtful, honorable man he had made of himself.
Inside the house, the tea service had been set out in the south parlor, with a footman ceremonially warming the teapot. A fire crackled in the grate, shedding a golden tinge on the walls.
“How remiss of me, Your Grace,” she said as the servants retreated. “I have been so busy informing you of your intellectual shortcomings that I forgot to wish you a happy birthday.”
“You and two hundred of my closest friends,” he said wryly. “I used to throw a birthday bacchanal for myself every year, right here at Ludlow Court.”
“Do you miss a good bacchanal?” How could one not, she thought? She'd never had one and sometimes she still missed it.
“Occasionally. But I don't miss the aftermath. The wallpaper in this particular room had to be changed six times in eleven years.”
She glanced at the walls. The damask wall covering was of a different pattern—acanthus rather than fleur-de-lis—but care had been taken to find a near exact match of the rich celadon green background she remembered, so that the room remained much as it was thirty years ago when she'd come for tea and wild dreams. “It's remarkable how little the wallpaper has changed, for all that.”
“Trust me, it didn't look anything like this during my more debauched days. The wallpaper featured other . . . themes.”
He smiled. Her heart thudded. Her almost hag-hood notwithstanding, she couldn't help being rampantly curious about the latent scoundrel in him. The least reference to his former wickedness had her in a lather. Accompanied by one of those alluring smiles . . . well, she could count on not sleeping much tonight.
“I had the old wallpaper duplicated exactly after I retired from Society. I had everything duplicated, from memory and old photographs. But I found I couldn't really stand it.” He took a sip of his coffee—he'd given up the pretense of drinking tea several weeks ago, admitting that he couldn't stomach the stuff. “So I made a few changes to suit myself.”
“The past does exert a terrible toll, doesn't it?” she said quietly.
He turned an unused teaspoon by its handle, down, and up again. His silence was his answer. In his self-imposed exile there was a strong element of punishment. But it needed not be that way. Not anymore.
“My daughter keeps a private investigator on retainer.” Gigi and her modern, progressive ways. She hoped the duke didn't inquire too closely as to why. “I availed myself of his services on something that concerns you.”
His eyebrow rose. “If you wish to know how Lady Wimpey's bed caught on fire, you've but to ask me.”
A month ago she'd have blushed. Today she didn't even blink. “Actually, I'm more interested in those items of foreign manufacture and iniquitous nature to which Lady Fancot was apparently partial.”
“They were only velvet-lined handcuffs—foreign-made, perhaps, but hardly iniquitous,” he said.