By the time he finished school two years later, Avery had learned a great deal about the wisdom of the Orient from his master, both philosophical and spiritual. He had learned too, not just about certain martial arts, but also how to perform them. The most wonderful discovery of all had been that his small stature and whip-thin body were actually the perfect instruments for such arts. He practiced diligently and endlessly until even his unrelentingly stern and demanding master was almost satisfied with him. He had made of himself a deadly human weapon. His hands could chop through piled boards; his feet could fell a not-so-very-young tree, though he proved that to himself only once before falling prey to remorse at having killed a living thing unnecessarily.
He had never practiced the deadliest of the arts on any human, but he knew how if he should ever need to use his skills. He hoped that time would never come, for he had also learned the corresponding art of self-control. He rarely used the weapon that was himself and never to its full potential, but the fact that he was a weapon, that he was virtually invincible, had given him all the confidence he would ever need to live his life in a world that admired height and breadth of chest and shoulder and manly good looks and a commanding presence. He had never told anyone about his meeting with the Chinese gentleman and its consequences, not even his family and closest friends. He had never felt the need.
His master had had only one criticism that had never wavered.
“You will discover love one day,” he had told Avery. “When you do, it will explain all and it will be all. Not self-defense, but love.”
He had not explained, however, what he meant by that word, which had more meanings than perhaps any other word in the English language.
“When you find it,” he had said, “you will know.”
What Avery did know was that men feared him even while they believed they despised him. He knew they did not understand their fear or even openly admit it. He knew women found him attractive. He had learned to surround himself with the weapon that was himself like an invisible aura, while inside he observed his world with a certain cool detachment that was not quite cynical and not quite wistful.
Lady Anastasia Westcott, he suspected, did not find him either fearful or irresistibly attractive, and for that he admired her too. She had even called him absurd. No one ever called the Duke of Netherby absurd, even though he frequently was.
“When a gentleman walks with a lady,” he said as they approached the park, “they make conversation. Shall we proceed to do so?”
“About anything at all?” she asked. “Even when there is nothing to say?”
“There is always something to say,” he said, “as your education will soon teach you, Anna. There is always the weather, for example. Have you noticed how there is always weather? It never lets us down. Have you ever known a day without weather?”
She did not reply, but around the hideous brim of her hideous bonnet he could see that she was almost smiling.
Carriages and riders were making their way in and out of the gates. Their occupants glanced Avery’s way and then returned for a harder look. He turned off the main carriageway to cross a wide expanse of green lawn in the direction of a line of trees that hid the streets beyond from view. He did not intend exposing her to the curiosity of large numbers of the fashionable world today. There was a path through the trees where one could expect a measure of solitude.
She did not choose the weather, even though there was weather happening all around them in the form of sunshine and warmth and very little breeze. Those three subtopics could have kept them chatting for five minutes or longer.
“You must have known my father,” she said.
“He was the duchess, my stepmother’s elder brother,” he said. “And yes, I had an acquaintance with him.” As little as he possibly could.
“What was he like?” she asked.
“Do you wish for the polite answer?” he asked in return.
She turned her head sharply in his direction. “I would prefer the truthful answer,” she said.
“I suppose in your world you can conceive of no other, can you, Anna?” he asked her.
She was small with a minimum of curves. She was small breasted. Her hair, even without the bonnet, was severely styled and heavy. Yet something came into her eyes for a moment, a certain awareness that he did not believe was fear, and somehow it flashed from her eyes into his body, and for a brief moment it did not seem to matter that the only physically appealing thing about her was her Madonna’s face. It was an extraordinary moment. It was almost sexual.
“Why ask a question,” she said, “if one does not want a truthful answer?”
Ah. Now he understood. He liked her. That was extraordinary enough, but it was easier to understand than sexual awareness.
“Anna,” he said by way of reply to her question, “have you never asked a man if you look beautiful? No, foolish question. I do not suppose you have. It would not occur to you to go on a fishing trip for a compliment, would it? Women who ask that question certainly do not want the truth.”
She was still looking directly as him. “How very absurd,” she said.