Every now and then she paused to let Lutin sniff some patch of ground or a fallen leaf.
“You listened,” Tremaine said with mock-gratefulness. “And you—or are you determined to remain a mystery?”
That was unexpected. She had thought him likely to speak at length about himself and his exploits. The speed with which he turned the question back upon her caused her to answer without thinking.
“I was born in Paris.”
“Ah, a Parisian through and through.”
He had a way of speaking where he elongated words, drawling them out, as though he were bored, not just of the conversation, but of the language itself. It smacked of arrogance.
“I am surprised.”
The words were dangled like bait, ready for her to snatch, and to her immense ire she found herself doing just that. “Oh?” At least her tone wasn’t inviting.
“I detect a distinct lack of pride in your heritage. That is not normal for a Parisian, n’est pas?”
He was not being put off by her obvious aversion to his enquiries. It was common among the nobility—a complete lack of awareness of others. They cared about only what interested them, what served them. He was just like Lucien.
In the present moment, what interested the Duke was her. She was fast coming to the conclusion he was not interested in taking her attentions from the Comte—she was a plaything to him. A bored petulant English noble looking for a distraction in his imposed exile.
“You know much of the Parisians?” she asked, not giving anything further away. She would keep whatever cards she had close to her chest.
“Only a little. I’d been in Greece and Italy for several years before coming back to Society.”
“Ah—Agamemnon,” she muttered under her breath.
“Exactement!” the Duke exclaimed “You have a first-rate mind—does the Comte buy you books on ancient history?”
They were approaching a series of promenading parties coming in the opposite direction and she hoped this would disrupt his enquiries. But despite him attracting the attention of several ladies passing by, his gaze did not falter from the path ahead, and he continued the same line of conversation.
“Or perhaps you bargain for books yourself as well as dog biscuits?”
A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth, begging to be set free.
“I shall tell no one if you find the humour of an Englishman amusing. Your secret is safe with me.”
Curse him! How was he so observant?
Another party passed them by and within it was a tall, slender lady, quite beautiful, wearing a cornflower-blue dress and matching coat. The woman noticed the Duke, whose height and classical features Emilie had to admit were handsome, and fluttered her eyelashes in his direction.
The Duke paid no attention.
“Along with the secret of disdaining your heritage, of course.”
“I don’t disdain my heritage,” Emilie retorted.
The man did not know of what he spoke. The Duke of Tremaine had no knowledge outside of the shimmering salons of aristocratic Society. He was of the rank whose narrow existence birthed an ennui that could only be challenged by excess. The excesses of gambling and affairs of the heart, both of which she knew him guilty.
If he hadn’t so provoked the Comte on their first meeting, Emilie would have expected Vergelles to single out the Duke later on. Tremaine was just the sort of man the Comte usually befriended to encourage business investments from. Fools with money.
“Oh, I have upset you—or was the upset caused by your being saved from that thieving market seller by an Englishman?” Then, with marginally less sarcasm, “I think in actuality, I intruded upon you, took over the situation in a failed attempt at gallantry, and have now forced my unwelcome company upon you with an inordinate number of questions.”
“Oui,” she said without a second thought.
The bluntness of her reply, which she had not meant to say out loud, caused her to clap a free hand over her mouth.
Now the Duke was laughing. “Candour—now that I can respect.”
“Pardon!” she said, her barbed tone disappearing completely.
This nobleman was horrifyingly astute with an uncanny ability to read her mind. The only thing which combatted her mortification even a little, was the light of amusement she saw in his eyes when she glanced worriedly at him. Accompanying that gleam was the most disarming smile.
“Forgive me,” she repeated in English, “I was just… surprised by you when you interrupted me speaking to the biscuit seller. I am used to my morning trips to the Jardin des Tuileries alone. It is my time with Lutin.”
“Ah, say no more.” The Duke’s tone was gentle. “There is something sacred in the little routines of our lives, no? They provide sanity in an otherwise chaotic world.”
The Englishman couldn’t have spoken truer words. “That is exactly it,” she said.
“In that case, all is forgiven,” he said generously. “Before I lost interest in my studies, I once threw a shoe at my cousin when he interrupted me reading.”
He recounted the memory in such a serious tone that Emilie did not immediately take in what he had said. When it finally registered, she was overwhelmed with a desire to laugh. She stifled it, an errant squeal escaping.
“Ah,” said the Duke knowingly, “That is the way into your good graces, then—violent anecdotes. I shall take note.”
“Absolument pas!” Emilie replied severely, stifling a rebellious laugh.
Whatever she thought of this Englishman, he was amusing.
