Can’t Buy Me a Duke by Bianca Blythe
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“This is the Serpentine.” Lucy’s eyes widened.
Harrison smirked. “I’m glad you took the time to remember the names of the London locations you visited.”
“I knew it before.”
Harrison’s eyes glimmered. “Are you bragging?”
Lucy laughed and threw a silk throw pillow at him. “You know what I mean.”
Harrison caught the pillow. “Pillow throwing is not an essential part of the courtship process.”
Lucy narrowed her eyes. “Perhaps not all suitors need pillows to be thrown at them.”
A few elderly matrons stared at them, halting their already minuscule pace to observe.
“I don’t think they would agree with the necessity of pillow throwing,” Harrison said, gliding his head toward the well-dressed women, their gray hair covered by fruit-and-feather adorned bonnets.
“Clearly, they haven’t spent a long time speaking with you.”
She extended her hand, and Harrison helped her from the carriage.
“To think I was your first-choice faux suitor,” Harrison grumbled.
“I never told you that. You assumed.”
“There’s someone else?” Harrison raised his eyebrows. He scoured Hyde Park, as if half-expecting to see a more dashing, first-choice pick.
The idea unsettled him. He didn’t want to imagine Lucy climbing into any other man’s library and he didn’t want to imagine any other man disappointing her. It was dreadful enough he’d done that to begin with.
“You were my first choice,” Lucy murmured. The alto sound of her voice soothed him, and he stared at her.
Her green eyes glimmered, and sunlight played over the strands of her red hair. Her skin had a dewy sheen to it, a fact no doubt helped by the warm day. He’d never quite appreciated how many freckles dotted her delightfully sloped nose and her apple cheeks. He had a distinct urge to count them. Or at least trace them with his fingers.
“You’re beautiful,” he murmured.
Her eyes widened, and her long lashes fluttered over her eyes for a moment.
The air thickened, as if they’d landed in the Caribbean.
“You needn’t say that,” she said finally. “I-I don’t think anyone can hear you.”
He frowned. “You can hear me.”
She nodded but seemed quieter than before. The rest of the throw pillows remained firmly on Lucy’s seat.
Most women expected him to praise their beauty. Though he’d given his compliments on the overall symmetry of their features and overall loveliness of their attire, the compliments had always felt forced.
Lucy’s beauty was less artfully concocted. Was it possible she didn’t hear many compliments on her appearance? Perhaps people were always praising her sister. He felt guilty he had once considered her the less beautiful sibling.
He proffered his arm, and as she placed her fingers on the crook of his elbow, a jolt of energy moved through him. It didn’t matter that he was wearing one of those thick tweed tailcoats his valet was always setting aside for daytime activities. Had Fletcher heard the stories of his sickly childhood? It didn’t matter that Lucy’s own fingers were enclosed in some Parisian gloves that managed to involve both flounces and ribbons, despite their small size.
The Serpentine glittered before them. The color was a darker blue than this morning, no doubt assisted by the now azure sky. Birds chirped, and butterflies flitted past them on their way to some new and interesting flower.
“Why did you take me here?” Lucy asked.
“I thought a woman who goes to the Serpentine at half six in the morning must be a true Serpentine enthusiast. Or was there another reason you went?”
Lucy’s cheeks pinkened, and though the color was most charming on her, he felt a wave of regret. He didn’t want her to feel any discomfort.
“It’s also an excellent location for a couple to be seen,” Harrison said. “Just in case people at a ball don’t take sufficient note of our dances at a ball.”
Lucy nodded, evidently appeased. “You are an excellent faux suitor.”
“I know,” he said, but for an instant, he imagined what it would be like if he were an actual suitor who was finding activities they would both enjoy and that would take her away from her family.
He swallowed hard. There were many reasons he could not dwell on the possibility of actual courtship. Besides, Lucy had already made it clear that she preferred to keep things businesslike.
“People are looking at us,” Lucy murmured. “I think that’s your friend, Sir Augustus.”
Harrison grimaced. Sir Augustus was a good rowing partner, somebody who didn’t mind the early hours at which other men scoffed, but he wasn’t certain he could consider him a friend.
Sir Augustus seemed uncomfortable at times with Harrison’s lofty title. Harrison gave a wry smile. At least that they had in common.
“There are some smaller rowboats here,” Harrison said. “I thought I could take you on the Serpentine, if you find that enjoyable.”
Lucy’s eyes widened.
“Though some people aren’t fond of being on boats,” Harrison said quickly. “So, of course, if you fall into that type of people, we can just stroll the perimeter.”
“No. A boat ride is an excellent idea.”
He nodded. “Perhaps more people would notice us.”
“Yes,” Lucy agreed. “Though I’m personally quite fond of boat rides as well.”
He turned to her. “You are?”
She nodded. “I sometimes traveled by boat to my friends’ summer houses in Long Island and Newport. Isabella sometimes got seasick, but I always enjoyed the journey. Water is so peaceful. It seems impossible to worry when one is on it. Provided, of course, that one is not worried about drowning.”
Harrison grinned. “I promise not to topple us into the Serpentine.”
He paid the boatman and assisted her into a boat. Then he followed her into the boat and took hold of the oars.
She smoothed her dress, but she didn’t need to do that. She was already beautiful. His heartbeat quickened for some reason. No doubt his heartbeat was pitter pattering at an unusual rate because of the exertion of getting into the boat, and it wasn’t because he was actually feeling romantic. Perhaps his heart had never caused him any trouble, but older people were always clutching their heart, and he had had a birthday two months ago. Any other reason was impossible.
He’d vowed long ago that romance was not something he would pursue. Perhaps after the duchess died, things might be different. But then, he wouldn’t be on a boat with Lucy Banks.
He bit his lip. He didn’t need to think about that now. Unlike Harrison’s father, ill-health had never plagued the duchess.
“You must have spent some time on the sea as a child,” Lucy said.
Contentment swept over his face. “Cornwall is beautiful in the summer. The estate borders the ocean.
“Where in Cornwall is it located?”
“Near Tintagel.” He leaned nearer her. “That’s where King Arthur is rumored to have lived.”
“Ah.” Her eyes sparkled. “As the nearest aristocrat in that region, perhaps you are a descendent of King Arthur’s.”
He swallowed hard. “That w-would make sense.”
She gave him an odd look. One problem with Lucy was that she was very intelligent. She was her father’s daughter.
“Is there a reason you have reservations?” she asked.
There was the question. This was the time he could tell her everything. He could share his secret, and perhaps because they already shared a secret, he trusted she would keep his.
In fact, he had the definite sense it might be nice to share everything with her. It would be nice to discuss it with someone besides the duchess. She might even understand.
He shook his head.
The idea was absurd. Lucy had come to him for a business arrangement. She hadn’t come to learn about his past. He shouldn’t even have entertained the thought in his mind, however momentarily.
Suddenly, the privacy of the boat seemed unwelcome. If they’d simply strolled the Serpentine, he wouldn’t have become tempted to tell her everything. He would have been too conscious of the fact they could have been overheard.
He cleared his throat. “I only meant I don’t believe in fairytales.”
“You don’t believe King Arthur existed,” she said, but disappointment flitted over her face.
Perhaps she’d suspected he had had more to say. Perhaps she knew him already. How had she managed to know him better already than Augustus? Or even Benedict?
But he knew he’d chosen Benedict and Augustus to be his friends for a reason. They were mostly good-natured, mostly up for adventure, and neither man was prone to rumination. Pondering things wasn’t their favorite thing to do, at least when there were athletic activities to pursue and tailors to visit.
“One of the nice things about my estate is that it is on the north side of the county,” Harrison said, suddenly finding the need to talk about anything, even geography.
“Indeed?” Lucy asked.
He nodded. “It’s quieter. Fewer people sailing to France or the United States.”
She raised an eyebrow.
“Not of course that it is bad if people do want to go to those countries,” he said hastily, in what he hoped was a sufficiently gentlemanly manner.
She grinned. “Good.”
Everything was fine again, and contentment flitted through him. He rowed methodically through the water, moving his oars in perfect rhythm. The sun shone behind Lucy, and she shimmered and sparkled.
*
LUCY PRETENDED IT WASperfectly normal to be on a boat with a handsome, eligible duke. Judging from the stares of the passersby, not everyone was utterly convinced.
She sighed. She’d hoped leaving New York would have been able to give her a fresh start, and that people would forget.
She loved him.
Fiddlesticks.
Perhaps she’d always loved him. Perhaps that was why she’d blushed whenever he’d appeared at her parent’s townhouse, and perhaps that was why she’d tried to avoid him, even when he was gallantly assisting her friend find happiness with Mr. Rupert Andrews.
Perhaps she’d always known her fate, even though she’d avoided it. And perhaps that was why she’d thought immediately of him when she required a faux fiancé.
Her heart rattled uncomfortably in her chest.
She shouldn’t have done anything. All that she’d discovered was that Harrison was good and kind. It was better when she’d just thought him handsome. Then it had been easy to assign him entirely undeserving negative characteristics. She could tell herself that he was vile and self-important.
But in truth, Harrison was none of those things.
He was modest and uncomfortable with his title. He didn’t talk at length about the accomplishments of his ancestors, as if to imply that if England were waging a brutal war now, that naturally, he would singlehandedly lead the country to victory.
He was understanding. Somehow, she hadn’t thought he would be. Sometimes, she thought he knew her too well. He seemed to understand the exact dynamics of her and her family.
When he’d visited her parents, he hadn’t rolled his eyes at her parents’ propensity to exclaim and exaggerate. He hadn’t told her father that he worked too much. On the contrary, he’d seemed to admire her father’s position and had spoken more at length about it than anyone else in this country had done. Even people Papa’s age had been mystified by his profession, declaring a personal preference for reading philosophical tomes, as if the mere fact gave him a heightened understanding of the universe, even though the people who indulged in such reading seemed the furthest away from the struggles of daily life.
Harrison never smirked because her parents had not attended a certain opera or because they took open delight in some music arrangements, a sign to others less of their sophisticated taste than an indication that they’d most likely never even heard the arrangements before.
He’d never sighed in a wearisome manner when Mama had fretted over food choices, even when Lucy herself had.
No, Harrison was different from most men. And the differences were good.
I won’t fall in love. I won’t fall in love. I won’t fall in love.
Lucy scrunched her lips together as if the action might prevent the emotion from happening, even though she had the horrible sense that she’d fallen long ago.
Most likely, the action would only serve to make her slightly less attractive, a state that she couldn’t fall into, given her already imperfect features.
No doubt, Isabella never scrunched her lips or furrowed her brows, even though she wasn’t working with freckled skin or a shade of hair that had caused people long ago to liken the owners of it to witches and still made people offer, at best, sympathy.
She forced herself to chatter about the geography of Cornwall and not on Harrison’s occasional melancholic glances and what they might mean.