A beat of silence exploded between them.
Robert studied her carefully as they resumed their slow walk through the garden, with his hands clasped behind his back.
“If not reading, then what do you occupy yourself with all day?”
She considered a moment. “Needlework.”
“Needlework,” he repeated, trying and utterly failing not to sound disappointed.
“Yes. Samplers, mostly.” She glanced at him with a blank expression that almost seemed designed to provoke. “Oh, and I sort my ribbons.”
He blinked. “You… sort them?”
“By color. And width. It helps me think.”
Robert turned to her slightly, unsure whether she was mocking him. Her tone was utterly even. “And what else?”
She looked up at the sky. “I water my plants though I do believe most of them are dying. I take tea. I walk in circles around our garden path. Sometimes I help my mother fold linens. If I’m feeling particularly adventurous, I alphabetize our pantry.”
Robert stared at her. “You must be the most thrilling woman in all of England.”
She gave a single, exaggerated nod. “I am. Positively scandalous.”
A slow smirk tugged at his mouth. “You are either lying to provoke me or deeply unwell.”
“I wouldn’t waste a lie on something so tedious,” she replied, feigning offence. “I’m merely giving you what you asked for.”
His amusement deepened. “And here I was, foolishly imagining you spent your days riding across meadows and breaking hearts.”
She gave a delicate sniff. “I haven’t broken anything recently. Except one of my mother’s porcelain vases last week. It was an accident, I assure you.”
Robert let out a quiet, surprised laugh before he could help it. There was something in the way she recited her bland itinerary with such severe poise that he couldn’t quite tell whether she was amusing herself at his expense or if this truly was the life she led. Either way, he was intrigued.
“Perhaps,” he considered slowly, “I’ll send you another gown, one suitable for alphabetizing preserves.”
“Please don’t,” she replied quickly. “I’d have to invent a new cupboard to justify it.”
Their eyes met again, and though her lips were pursed and her posture impeccably correct, he could see the sparkle of mischief lurking just beneath the surface.
Yes,he thought,this one will keep me on my toes.
Evelyn clasped her hands primly before her as they strolled beneath the trimmed hedgerows. She was rather proud of herself. The bit about sorting ribbons? Inspired. The pantry alphabetization? Absolute genius. It had taken every ounce of restraint not to smirk when he’d asked if she was unwell. No man, surely, would want to marry a woman who sorted starches and sugars for entertainment.
Yes, it was working splendidly. She could almost see it now: the haughty, impossible Duke Aberon, riding off in dramatic dismay, drafting a letter to dissolve the engagement,citing a tragic lack of intellectual compatibilityorterminal dullness. And who could blame him? She was utterly tiresome.
She dared a glance up at him as they walked. He was quiet, thoughtful. Likely already composing the very letter in his mind.
Victory,she thought.Sweet, sweet?—
“I wonder,” he said suddenly, cutting through her thoughts, “if you alphabetize your pantry in French or English.”
She stumbled a step. “Pardon?”
“Well, you strike me as a woman of taste,” he observed mildly. “And surely you keep your imported goods separate.”
“I…” Her eyes narrowed. “Naturally, I do.”
He smiled as if this confirmed something. She could not tell whether he was mocking her or playing along.
