Page 27 of Private Arrangements
“A shame.” He turned his head and gave the instrument an appreciative glance. “An Érard piano should be played.”
“You can take it with you when you go back to New York. A divorce present.” She had ordered it as a wedding present for him. But it hadn't arrived until months after he left.
His gaze returned to her. “Thank you, I might. Especially since it already has my initials inscribed.”
He was standing close enough that she imagined she could smell him, the scent of a man after mid-night—naked skin under silk dressing gown. “Get to it, will you?” she murmured. “All this sexual skittishness is not very attractive in a man.”
“Yes, yes, I'm well aware. But the fact remains, I'm loath to touch you.”
“Turn off all the lights. Pretend I'm someone else.”
“That would be difficult. You tend to be vocal.”
She colored. She couldn't help it. “I'll sew my lips shut.”
He shook his head slowly. “It's no use. You breathe and I'll know it's you.”
Ten years ago she'd have taken it for a declaration of love. Her heart still gave a throb, a lonely echo.
He bowed. “One more piece and I'm off to bed.”
As she left, he began playing something as soft and haunting as the last roses of summer. She recognized it in two bars:Liebesträume.He and Mrs. Rowland had played it together that first night of their acquaintance. Even Gigi, incompetent musician that she was, could pick out that melody on the piano with one hand.
Dream of Love.All that she ever had with him.
Mrs. Rowland's campaign to woo the duke had hit a snag.
For a day or so, things went terribly well. The case of Chatêau Lafite went promptly to Ludlow Court. A gracious thank-you note came back just as promptly, accompanied by a basket of apricot and peach preserves from Ludlow Court's own orchards.
Then nothing. Victoria sent an invitation to the duke for her next charity gala. He gave a generous cheque, but declined to attend the event. Two days later, she plucked up the audacity to call upon Ludlow Court in person, only to be told that the duke was not at home.
It'd been five years since she resettled in Devon in her childhood house, which she'd purchased from her nephew. Five years during which to observe the duke's comings and goings. She knew perfectly well that he never went anywhere else except for his daily walk.
Which left her no choice but to intercept him during his walk again.
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 walkwithhim. 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.”
