The Clarendon Rose (9 page)

Tina felt oddly breathless at his response.
 
He had actually listened to what she had to say, considering her comments rather than dismissing them out of hand.
 
Or, perhaps it was just the warm approbation of his smile that made it suddenly so difficult to breathe normally.

“What is your opinion on the subject, Your Grace?”

He shrugged.
 
“Like you, I’ve observed a number of men who could easily be considered as ludicrous as the silliest of women.
 
That seems a fair bid for equality, in my estimation.”
 
He looked straight into Tina’s eyes as he continued,
 
“Of course, it is somewhat rarer to encounter a woman of the
ton
who can reason as cogently as a man and who somehow has enough awareness of the world to be unaffected by rosy visions of reality.”

“Is it?”
 
Tina hoped her voice sounded closer to normal than she felt.
 
“Perhaps you simply haven’t spoken to enough women of sense.”

“That is entirely possible, given that until recently, I did not have much of it myself,” he replied, briefly rueful.

She found herself unable to look away from those mesmerizing dark eyes.
 
“And the ability to reason is an acquired one.
 
But I’m sure you wouldn’t want me to start quoting Wollstonecraft at you.”

“Few men would, Miss Merriweather, particularly on an afternoon such as this.
 
But, I have a feeling that even the controversial Miss Wollstonecraft’s writing would acquire an unprecedented element of fascination if it were you who did the quoting.”

Tina finally managed to tear her gaze away from his.
 
Though he hadn’t moved, for a moment, it had felt like he was close enough for her to feel his breath against her cheek.
 
“Do you indeed, sir?”

“After all, it’s rarer still to find a paragon of a woman who is a realist, a rhetorician and a siren.
 
Your voice alone would drive men to their doom, before they’d even had a chance to glimpse your face.”

The spell was broken.
 
Tina flushed with anger at this outrageous comment, particularly given that it must simply be another manifestation of his charm, rather than any genuine admiration.
 
Was it really necessary that he bid to have
every
woman casting herself at his feet—even those he had no intention of seducing?
 
How
dare
he think to add me to his coterie of doting admirers!

Of course, no small part of her anger was directed at herself.
 
He might not be able to stop himself from being charming, but why did she—a woman of such supposed good
sense
—have to be so susceptible to it?

She rose from the blanket and strode away, before turning back to glare at him, her eyes narrowed with fury.
 
“You go too far, Your Grace.
 
What can you possibly hope to gain with this arrant flattery?”
 

His eyebrows rose.
 
“Your ability to accept an honest compliment so graciously does you credit, Miss Merriweather.”

The amusement in his tone only served to add to her fury.
 
She shook her head, glaring at him with contempt, though in the sweep of her anger, it wasn’t simply the duke she saw, but also the man who had fathered her, then killed himself.
 
And the angry, brutal man her mother had married in order to save herself and a younger Tina from starvation.
 

“It’s so much easier for men, isn’t it?” she hissed bitterly.
 
“You can have your indiscretions and no-one bats an eye.
 
But for women, life isn’t that simple—one public misstep and we are condemned—”
 

Tina stopped herself mid-torrent, her eyes wide.
 
Then, trembling, she walked away from the duke, the pond—the whole scene.
 
She had to be alone, if only for a few moments, in order to compose herself.
 
Because even as she heard the words pouring from her mouth, she came to the sudden realization that it was her mother speaking.
 

Closing her eyes, she thought back to those sordid times in the set of rooms that were all they could afford—the filth of the maggoty tables and food, the rats that scuttled across the floors in the darkness so that Tina had to be careful where she stepped at night.
 

They had lived on the edge of one of the more notorious rookeries—those London districts where all, from the petty confidence tricksters to the most hardened murderers, conducted their business.
 
Though Tina suspected that her stepfather often strayed over to the wrong side of the law in the course of his business dealings, it was not a subject her mother deemed suitable for discussion.
 
Instead, Emily Staunton had preferred to focus on how Tina must be epitome of propriety.

When she wasn’t busy doing fine embroidery to supplement their meager funds, she was teaching Tina how to speak like “a girl of your rightful birth.”

These lessons were, often as not, punctuated by burning glares.
 
“You
will
rise above this life, Tina—I promise you that.
 
And you must promise me you won’t let yourself sink to this level again.”

If even a touch of the street cant slipped into Tina’s speech, Emily would fly into a rage.
 
“Being a proper lady is not a mere pastime, Valentina Merriweather!
 
If once you slip from the path, you will be lost.
 
Don’t let me hear you use that word again.”
 
Often as not, the admonishment would be accompanied by a slap, such that Tina soon learned to avoid picking up any of the street slang.
 

The unfortunate consequence of this was that the other children in the slum thought she was putting on airs and sought to take her down a peg or two.

Big Ned had found her after the first time.
 
For all that he was a fright to look at, his battered face a tracework of scars, he had a soft spot for children and had been one of the few truly kind people she remembered from her childhood.

“Ye needs ta teach the bullies a lesson, little starlin’,” he’d instructed.
 
“Once they’ve figured out that ye won’t be messed wif, they’ll leave ye alone.”

And so he had taught her to find weapons in everyday objects and to use openings in an opponent’s defenses wherever they came.
 
He had taught her the dirtiest, most vicious aspects of street fighting, and before long, Tina was able to hold her own against the group of bullies who had singled her out.

When Emily had seen her daughter’s cuts and bruises—and later, her bloodied knuckles and nails—her eyes had narrowed, but she had said little about the actions that would have engendered such injuries.
 
Tina was certain she had seen a gleam of satisfaction in her mother’s expression as she mopped at Tina’s hands and bandaged her knuckles, muttering, “A proper lady always keeps her nails clean.”

Then, pausing in her ministrations, Emily pierced her daughter with a glare.
 
“And a proper lady uses
whatever means necessary
to guard her virtue and her person.”
 
Returning her gaze to Tina’s hands, Emily continued on a more familiar tirade, “You will not be ruined, Tina.
 
I’ll not allow it—“

“Miss Merriweather?”
 
His tone was gentle.
 
His voice, dark and seductive.
 
He had followed her, as she supposed he was bound to do.
 
He stood somewhere close behind.
 
Tina squeezed her eyes tightly shut a moment, trying to bring her mortification under control—after all, he was right.
 
He had simply been complimenting her.
 
Her own ridiculous susceptibility to him, combined with the memory of her mother’s dire warnings, had prompted her to lash out at him like a paranoid spinster.
 

If the shoe fits, missy,
came the tart rejoinder.
 
The realization provoked a reluctant smile.
 
At least I can still laugh at myself.
 
But much longer in his company and I might well lose my sense of humor.

Taking a deep breath, she turned and raised her chin.
 
The self-mocking smile still played on her lips.
 
“I apologize, Your Grace.
 
It seems I forgot my parasol this morning.”
 

His expression shifted from grave concern to startlement at her words.
 
“Your parasol?”

“I was therefore unable to bash you over the head with it in my vain attempt to defend myself from your compliments,” she explained.
 
“I suppose I could have used one of the saddle bags instead, but that doesn’t seem
quite
so quintessentially spinsterish, does it?
 
It really is rather awful of me to assume the role without bringing along all the props, don’t you think?”

A smile touched his lips as he offered her his arm.
 
She accepted, pushing aside her burning awareness of his proximity in her desire to make amends for her overreaction.
 
This close, he smelled of leather oil and masculine spice mingled with a hint of sweat.
 
They began walking back towards the pond.
 

“It would neither do me credit as a gentlemen nor as a rake—if that’s how I’m to be cast in this scene—to agree with you in that regard, Miss Merriweather.
 
But you could always have conked me on the head with the wine bottle, if you felt so ardent a need to do me violence.”

“Ah, but I would not have you be the instrument of your own undoing.
 
After all, it was you who brought the wine in the first place.”

“It seems only appropriate, to my view.
 
The rake hoist with his own petard, so to speak,” he said mildly as they returned to the site of the picnic.
 

She released his arm and smiled up at him.
 
“At any rate, Your Grace, I apologize for the foray into drawing room farce.
 
You’d think we’d be safe from such nonsense, given the lack of drawing rooms in the area, but I have a talent for transplanting the form, it would seem.
 
I wouldn’t blame you if you refused, but I do hope you’ll overlook my silliness.”

Though the corner of his lips still lifted in a hint of a smile, his expression was serious as he spoke,
 
“Only if you’ll overlook my own indiscretion.”

She shook her head.
 
“It was hardly that.
 
But if that’s the only way this episode will be forgotten, I will certainly agree to it.”

He grinned suddenly, though that darkness she had come to recognize lingered.
 
Yet, between that and his dimples, she found herself enchanted once again, her own mouth stretching into a helpless smile.
 

“Excellent,” he replied.

Standing this close, she could see the way his eyes crinkled along the edges as he smiled, and her hands itched to reach up and tangle themselves into his hair.
 
She would draw his head down and lift her lips to meet his—

She turned away from him abruptly and walked over to the picnic spread, settling herself on the blanket.
 
Emily used to bemoan her own sensual nature, which had led her to such an ignominious pass.
 
Until meeting the duke, Tina had believed herself blessedly devoid of that wantonness her mother had so decried.

Having witnessed far more of the world than most women of her background tended to see, Tina had felt that the animal gruntings and movements she associated with intercourse never provided any insight into why anyone would
want
to do such a thing.
 
She had never understood where the pleasure came from.

But, with the duke, she shocked herself by finding it difficult to think of much else.
 
It wasn’t simply his looks, either, she realized.
 
It was something about his presence.
 
Clarendon had suffered—she wasn’t certain how she knew that, but she did not question the truth of the knowledge.
 
She was drawn to his air of sadness—perhaps because some ridiculous part of her wanted to be the one to help banish that heaviness in his expression.
 

I don’t know anymore,
she thought to herself, biting into another morsel of bread as she stared at the still mirror of the pond, its calm occasionally disturbed by small insects alighting upon it and skimming the surface of the water.
 
I only know I’m becoming a fool over him.
 
And I
wish
I knew how to stop myself.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the duke settle beside her on the blanket.
 
She turned to him with a smile.
 
“Have you seen many places in the course of your travels, Your Grace?” she asked, allowing him to refill her cup.

He shrugged.
 
“I have seen many places, yes.
 
But I cannot say I was particularly well-equipped to enjoy them.”

“How so?”

He sighed.
 
“I would not wish to shock you, Miss Merriweather.
 
Of course, I have a feeling that your opinion of me could hardly sink any lower than it already is, but that would not be for want of trying on my part.”

“Are you being intentionally coy, Your Grace?”

The duke let out a bark of laughter.
 
“I can say with some authority that this is the first time I have ever been described as ‘coy.’
 
All right, suffice to say that I was too much of a self-absorbed, self-indulgent fool to pay much heed to my surroundings.”