Page 69 of The Secret of Flirting
Today she was resplendent in a riding habit of brownish-purple crushed velvet, with a jaunty top hat of pink silk that had a strip of lavender gauze streaming from it.
Whoever had picked out her clothes certainly did like pink. But after last night’s discussion, he had to wonder if she’d chosen the purple gown just for him.
God, he really was becoming besotted. “Ready for a ride, I see,” he said, hoping he sounded nonchalant.
“It’s a lovely day for it,” Pontalba said. “Don’t you agree, Princess?”
“Certainement,” she said absently, searching Gregory’s face with an acute gaze that made him uncomfortable. “Monsieur, you do not look at all well this morning. Are you sure you wish to ride?”
Ride? God, yes. Unfortunately, his mare wasn’t what he wanted to ride. “I’m fine, Your Highness. Merely distracted by affairs of state involving this damned conference.”
She took his meaning at once and colored fetchingly, rousing heat in all the wrong places. “Yes, I’m sure that such matters often distract you.”
Climbing into the saddle, he muttered, “You have no idea.”
“Still,” she said, “you must be used to it by now.”
Blackmail? Impostors? His career teetering on the knife’s edge of destruction? Hardly. “Certain things, one never gets used to.” He prodded his horse into a walk. “Shall we?”
“Lead on, sir,” the duke said. “I am most eager to see your waterfall.”
The sun shone full on the lawn as they headed at a walk for the wilder part of the estate that lay past the woods. He did love his woods in autumn—the cool shadows, the flashes of evergreen and orange and red, the crisp crackle of dead leaves underfoot. A pity they could not ride through them rather than next to them, but since there was no path for it, that would be difficult.
“How far do your woods extend?” Monique asked.
“All the way to the main road. They provide the firewood for the estate. We’ve got alder, ash, and oak. Some birch. They’re also stocked with pheasant and partridge for hunting.”
“We should have gone hunting today!” the duke exclaimed. “I do enjoy such sport.”
“It’s not the season for it,” Gregory lied. He wasn’t about to give his guests firearms and hope that no one took the opportunity to shoot Monique “accidentally.”
“Well, your woods are very green,” she said blandly, obviously referring to their conversation yesterday, and Gregory shot her a sharp glance.
The duke said, “Not really, my dear. Just the evergreens and the oaks. They’re more orange and brown than anything.”
It took all Gregory’s effort not to laugh outright.
With a roll of her eyes for Gregory’s benefit, Monique pointed to a spot at the end of the woods. “And what is that in the distance?”
“An Ionic temple Mother had built for effect,” Gregory said. “To be honest, I’ve never understood the appeal of follies that do nothing but look pretty and enhance the grounds. A pavilion that one can use is fine. An elegant little chapel, for those who are very religious? Fine. But anything else seems pointless and a bit absurd.”
“Yet you don’t mind gardens,” Monique said, a hint of laughter in her voice. “Even though they too only look pretty and enhance the grounds.”
He smiled at her. “Perhaps I like the green as much as certain people I know.” When her cheeks pinkened, he added, “Besides, gardens are useful. You can take your exercise in them, grow flowers to cut for the house, and provide herbs for Cook. But what do you do with an Ionic temple?”
Pontalba was watching them in confusion. “If you dislike such ornamental creations, why did you approve the building of this one?”
He shrugged. “Mother needs her little projects to entertain her out here in the country. She isn’t much for town, so I don’t mind indulging her.”
Feeling Monique’s gaze on him, he glanced over to find her regarding him with an enigmatic expression. “You’re a good son.”
“I try to be.” He couldn’t prevent the edge sharpening his words. “Though, according to my mother, I don’t always succeed. If she had her way, I’d be here whenever Parliament isn’t in session.”
The glint of pity in Monique’s eyes, showing that she clearly remembered yesterday’s conversation, made him grit his teeth and look away. What in God’s name had prompted him to tell her about Father and John?
It was the way she listened, no doubt. She didn’t comment or judge. And that seemed to pull things out of him that he kept secret from everyone else.
The conversation petered out then, and for a while the three of them rode in silence.
