My Fair Princess (16 page)

“She means strangers to this part of England,” the duke said, answering Gillian's unspoken question. He crooked a finger at her. “Come, Miss Dryden.” His tone was warm, gentle, and implacable.

Sighing, she took his hand and rose. “I suppose you want to resume our blast—er, our lessons.”

“We'll see,” he said, leading her to the kitchen steps.

What did that mean? Gillian wasn't sure she wanted to know. She waved good-bye to Mrs. Peck and followed Leverton upstairs to the main entrance hall. Maria, her mother's maid, awaited them with Gillian's pelisse, bonnet, and gloves.

“You really weren't going to take no for an answer, were you?” Gillian asked in a wry tone.

“It never even occurred to me that you would say no, Miss Dryden.”

She rolled her eyes. “Your Grace, do you realize that you're sometimes a tad arrogant?”

“Surely you jest,” he replied with a smile that would have made her toes curl had she not been wearing such sturdy boots. It was annoying how bloody charming the man could be. Gillian had no doubt that a crook of the finger after one look from him would bring every woman in London scurrying to his side.

After all, it had worked on her.

As they walked down the steps to the circular sweep in front of the house, Mr. Scunthorpe appeared from the direction of the stables. The estate manager took off his hat. “Good afternoon, Your Grace.” He paused a moment. “Miss Dryden.”

Gillian frowned at the way the man's gaze flickered over her with a cool regard.

“Scunthorpe,” the duke replied with a nod. “Just back from Skegness?”

“Yes, sir. I delivered all your letters and met with your banker, as instructed.”

“Good man. We can discuss it after my walk with Miss Dryden.”

The estate manager directed another wary glance at Gillian, one that goaded her into speech. “The duke is showing me around the grounds,” she said with an entirely artificial smile. “I'm quite looking forward to it.”

“Indeed. You've already seen a good deal of it on your own, as far as I can tell,” Scunthorpe said in a polite tone.

The man
had
been watching her, but whatever for?

Leverton frowned. “You're not suggesting there's a problem with Miss Dryden's walking about the grounds by herself, are you?”

“Of course not, Your Grace,” Scunthorpe quickly replied. “In fact, I would be happy to escort her at any time, if she should so desire. The grounds are extensive as you know, and it would be my pleasure to serve as her guide.”

“Thank you,” Gillian said, “but I quite prefer to roam on my own. Except for today,” she hastily added when she took in the sardonic expression on Leverton's face.

“As you wish, Miss Dryden.” After a few more words with his employer, the estate manager excused himself and hurried into the house.

Gillian started walking, but stopped when Leverton didn't follow. She turned to find him studying her with a thoughtful air. “What?”

“Are you having a problem with Scunthorpe?” he asked.

“Not that I know of.” He was a disapproving snob, but that was hardly a rarity in her world. As for her sense that the man wasn't entirely trustworthy, he was the duke's employee and not her concern.

Leverton nodded and took her elbow, steering her along the gravel sweep.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“There's an interesting chapel not far from here, built during the seventeenth century. I thought you might like to see it.”

“How nice.”

Though she tried not to sound utterly bored by the prospect, she'd obviously failed, since the duke let out a derisive snort. “You might attempt a little more excitement, you know.” He drew her closer, tucking her against his side. “Monkton Chapel is considered to be both an architectural and historical gem.”

Unlike the proposed outing, his touch
was
exciting. Whenever she got this close to Leverton, Gillian's nerves tended to jump. He was a physically imposing man at the best of times, but with virtually no distance between them, he was almost overpowering.

He glanced down at her with some amusement. “I understood that you were quite fond of history.”

“I am. It's just that anything less than four hundred years old doesn't seem worth the trouble. After all, I grew up with Roman ruins in the bottom of our garden.” She waved an airy hand. “If you wish to impress me, Your Grace, you'll have to do better than a paltry two or three hundred years.”

“Miss Dryden, in the spirit of continuing with your lessons, may I point out that a young lady doesn't generally wish to offend by suggesting that an outing organized for her pleasure is a dead bore.”

She widened her eyes at him. “But what if it is a dead bore?”

He smiled. “Such a challenging pupil. I think you already know the answer to that question.”

“Unfortunately, I do. I'm to simper and smile and pretend everything is lovely, especially the gentleman who is, in fact, as tedious as one can imagine.” Gillian shook her head. “No wonder so many English girls seem wan and listless. They're bored out of their skulls.”

“Well, let's hope you acquire a few suitors who can do better than that,” he said. “There must be at least one or two who might meet your exacting standards, even if they aren't in the habit of hunting bandits.”

So far the only man she'd found at all interesting since coming to England was the duke himself—an alarming notion. Even more alarming was the obvious fact that Leverton was resuming her lessons. That meant her family had not given up on the idea of finding her a suitable husband—a husband who, no doubt, would object to the notion of his wife's spending most of her time in Sicily.

They were quiet for a minute or two as he led her off the drive and down a wide path through the tree-lined gardens. White and pink blossoms littered the path, knocked down by rain that had fallen the previous night. Sparrows flitted from one tree to the next, bravely twitting away despite the cool weather and the occasional gust of wind. It was a bucolic and peaceful scene, and would no doubt be smashingly lovely on a warm and sunny day. At the moment though, Gillian found it rather forlorn and damp, words that perfectly described her mood.

“The trees are very pretty in this part of the garden,” she said, trying to rally. “Can you tell me what they are?”

“Wild cherry and crabapple, I believe. I'd have to check with the gardener to be absolutely sure. We could try hunting him down if you'd like. I'm sure Pierce is rolling about here somewhere.”

“No, thank you,” she said. “I was just trying to make conversation.”

He laughed. “You can be a most daunting companion, Miss Dryden, although you did start off well with an unexceptionable topic. But your last comment was not likely to foster subsequent conversation.”

“Sorry,” she said, wincing. “I'm not very good at that sort of thing, am I? I'm afraid you have your work cut out for you.”

“Believe it or not, I generally find you a very interesting person to talk to. You have, shall we say, a unique view of life. But I suspect you have something else on your mind. Perhaps something that is weighing on you and making it difficult to have an easy conversation.”

She cut him a sideways glance. He was regarding her with a slight smile that curved up his wickedly attractive mouth. “You know you can speak to me about whatever you wish, Miss Dryden. I promise I won't be shocked.”

Gillian could think of a few things that would probably shock him, at least when it came to her past, present, and probably future behavior. But on this particular subject, there wasn't much to be gained by avoiding it.

She stopped in the middle of the path, forcing him to come to a halt. “By your comments, sir, I take it that you do intend to continue with my lessons in etiquette.”

“Of course. Why wouldn't I?”

“Because I'm a rather hopeless case?”

“I wouldn't say that by any means. You can be exceedingly charming when you make an attempt at it.”

She snorted. “Yes, I'm sure all the men think so. Especially Lord Andover.”

“We won't speak of that unfortunate incident, other than to say that his lordship earned exactly what he got.” His gaze flicked down over her figure, bringing sudden warmth to her cheeks. “And in case no one has ever told you, Miss Dryden, you are a very attractive young woman.”

“Actually, I have heard that before.” She turned abruptly and continued along the path, heading for the field beyond the formal gardens.

The duke caught up with her and grasped her hand. “Gently, my girl. There's no need to rush off in a huff.”

“I'm not in a rush, and I'm not huffing,” she snapped, trying to yank her hand away. He held on in a gentle but firm clasp. She stared straight ahead, hating that her cheeks must be blazing a furious pink.

“Gillian, I didn't mean to insult you,” he said, drawing her around to look at him. “I meant what I said. You are a lovely and intelligent young woman, and any man in his right mind would be happy to spend time in your company.”

Her heart thumped as he spoke her name in his deep voice. It thumped even harder at the look in his eyes. She well knew that the Duke of Leverton could charm the birds from the trees, but he didn't seem to be engaging in empty flattery. His gaze was open, admiring, and apparently sincere.

“Thank you,” she managed.

He studied her for a few moments. Then he blinked, as if something unpleasant had just occurred to him. “Miss Dryden, has someone insulted you by being overly familiar?”

He was back to being formal. “Not lately,” she said.

“What does that mean?”

“Nothing at all. I assure you that no gentleman other than Lord Andover has insulted me or been overly familiar. Although I suppose they wouldn't really be gentlemen if they did.”

“You'd be surprised.”

“Sadly, I would not, but that is hardly the point.”

“Then what is the point, Miss Dryden?” he asked, sounding exasperated.

She tugged her hand away and strode down the path, forcing him to follow. She always found it easier to talk about unpleasant subjects while moving. According to her grandmother, it was more like running away, but Gillian didn't necessarily agree with that view.

“It's just that you've set yourself an impossible task,” she said over her shoulder. “Mamma, Grandmamma, and you in particular. Surely my reputation is all but ruined by now. Why even make the effort?”

He caught up and again tucked her against his side. “The effort is entirely worth making. Your reputation is not ruined. Just a little, well, tarnished.”

“I fear you're going to need vats of polish to get it shining again.”

“I am up to the task.” His tone of voice conveyed not one shred of doubt.

Gillian let out a small sigh. “It must be lovely to be so convinced of one's superiority.”

The frozen silence that met her remark brought her up short. “Confound it,” she muttered. “I did not just say that.”

“It would appear that you did.” Amazingly, he didn't sound angry. His lips were pressed tight, as if he was trying not to laugh.

“Are you mocking me?” she asked suspiciously.

His grin finally broke free. It dazzled, as if the sunshine had broken through the gray, lowering sky, and surrounded her with light and warmth.

“I wouldn't dream of it,” he said. “But may I point out that you just delivered an extremely adroit insult. I would suggest you refrain from that sort of tactic when conversing with gentlemen you actually like.”

She had to smile back. “Understood. You, however, are surely impervious to insult.”

“Hardly.”

“I suspect that very few women—or men, for that matter—would ever mock or laugh at you. After all, you
are
Perfect Penley.”

Even though Leverton didn't move or bat an eyelid, she had the sensation that he'd just retreated. “You'd be surprised,” he said.

“Blast. I'm sorry. Now you know why I have so few friends—I inadvertently insult them. Truly, sir, you're wasting your time on me.”

“I don't believe that,” he said. “And apology accepted.”

She crinkled her nose. “Really?”

“Yes, to both. All I ask is that you try your best. Leave everything else up to me.”

“Of course.” She figuratively crossed her fingers behind her back, hoping he didn't sense her lack of enthusiasm.

They came up to a fence that ran the length of the field in front of them. Gillian let go of his arm and leaned on the top rail, gazing out at the peaceful view. While nothing like the beloved and imposing vistas of Sicily, it was green and fresh, and she caught a hint of a salty tang coming from the fens.

“It's very pretty here,” she said. “I like it.”

He turned sideways to look at her, leaning an elbow on the fence. “I'm glad, but I know you miss Sicily. In fact, you want to go back, do you not?”

Blast.
This was the last topic she wished to discuss with him. “It was my home, after all. And you must admit that the weather in England is simply ghastly,” she said, trying to be nonchalant.

“It's clearly more than the weather. You feel like you don't fit in—that England could never be home.”

“I didn't really fit in back in Sicily, either.” Aghast at the words that had just popped out of her mouth, Gillian gazed blindly out at the field. Somehow, those simple words rang true—too true, now that she thought about it.