“Have you always been so… orderly?” he asked after a moment, with false innocence.
“Yes,” she replied quickly. “Even as a child, I preferred a broom to a doll.”
“Fascinating. And did your ribbons behave, or were they difficult to discipline?”
She turned to him fully now, stopping in the path. “Are you making fun of me, Your Grace?”
His smile remained, infuriatingly unreadable. “Not at all. I’m simply getting to know my future duchess.”
She bristled at that. “You may find I’m not quite duchess material after all.”
He stepped a fraction closer, voice lowering. “On the contrary, I find you… rather singular.”
The look in his eyes sent an unexpected flutter down her spine.
Blast him.
Why was he smiling like that, as if he knew exactly what she was doing?
She turned sharply and resumed walking. “Well, I’m afraid I’m not very interesting. I like things plain and simple and… predictable.”
“Indeed.” He fell in step beside her once more. “And you’ve no desire at all for adventure?”
She scoffed. “Certainly not.”
“Or for conversation with a man who might actually listen?”
She flinched at that, inwardly, but she did not show it. “I’ve never found a man who listens to be particularly useful.”
His laugh was soft, genuine this time. “You wound me.”
She fought the urge to smile.
Yes,she thought, eyes forward.Very soon, he’ll come to his senses.
No man as proud and powerful as Robert Firming could tolerate marrying a woman as dreadfully unremarkable as the one she was pretending to be.
“And tell me, Miss Ellory, in your vast expertise on preserves,” he enquired, “what do the French call gooseberries? Surely you know, since I imagine you label themen français.”
She arched a brow. “Groseilles à maquereau.”
He smiled smugly. “No, no, I believe it’sgroseilles rouges. Red currants.”
She stopped walking.
“No,” she said coolly. “Groseilles rougesare red currants. Gooseberries aregroseilles à maquereau.You’ll find they’re quite distinct. A gooseberry has a tart, herbaceous note. A red currant is sharper, brighter. Entirely different texture, too.”
He turned to her with maddening calm, as if she’d only proven some private hypothesis.
“Astonishing,” he murmured. “A woman who claims she’s too dull for books, too simple for anything beyond pantry organization, yet speaks fluent French and probably knows the difference between every last fruit in God’s orchard.”
Evelyn’s breath caught.
Blast. Blast and botheration.
She’d walked right into it.
“I read a menu once,” she said stiffly. “In Calais. It left an impression.”
