“What are you doing?” Eleanor whispered, skipping a half step, so that she was out of his arms. “I am supposed to be working. Lady Wharton is paying me a reasonable sum to attend her.” Over her shoulder, she could see the silver-haired coterie staring at them rabidly.
He caught up to her and tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow. “Lady Wharton said she doesn’t need you.”
Eleanor flushed, painfully aware of the eyes on them. “No oneneedsa companion, but I do think she said so just because you outrank her.”
He grinned. “Well, then, perhaps this will inspire her to say what she thinks and not agree with me regardless. Besides, you did say that we could be friendly today.”
It had not been a dream. He had said what he’d said. She’d really done what she’d done. She swallowed. “Generally, dukes are not friendly with companions, Your Grace. Especially in public.” She indicated the attention they were attracting with a jerk of her head.
If he saw it, he ignored it, and instead used his other hand tofurther balance her as they descended a particularly steep part of the hill. “There are only thirty or so of us dukes. Hardly a large enough sample to reach such a generalization.”
“Twenty-nine,” she muttered.
“Pardon?”
“There are twenty-nine dukes in the United Kingdom.”
His lips quirked. “I have not asked any of them for a list of all the people they are friendly with. Have you?” When she didn’t answer, he grinned, escorting her the last few yards to the games green proper.
“What am I to watch you play, Your Grace?” Hopefully something that didn’t require his bending or stretching, or any other movement that showed off his form. The gin would have worn off for sure by now, so it had to be the passed-its-date cordial that was making her stomach flip every time her arm pressed against his—an arm firmer and more muscular than required by a man who didn’t need those muscles for work. She did not need to see his jacket pull tight across his shoulders while he tossed a ball at skittles.
He looked even more lovely than he had before. Had their kiss blurred her perception of him, or brought it into focus? She didn’t remember having noticed his pianist fingers and neatly trimmed nails. Nor had she paid attention to the line of his throat. Maybe it was the warm shade of his blue waistcoat that drew her eyes there now. It was pretty. It reminded her of cornflowers and maybe that’s what made him seem so soft today.
“One game is as good as another.”
For a man with such purpose, his response seemed rather irresolute. Maybe he was funning her, trying to lull her intoa sense of security, but for what purpose? “Are you as unforgiving in social matches as you are in business?” She could picture it now, young ladies of thetonreturning home to curl up in bed, crying because they’d been so thoroughly routed in a game of bowls.
He shrugged. “If you are expecting me to win, you will be sorely disappointed. My skills are middling, at best.”
“Your skills are middling, and yet you still play?” She found it hard to believe that the Duke of Strafford—one of the most powerful men in the country, who was ruthless in his desire to best her, who had the physique of a man who pushed his body and had a steel trap mind that matched—was so laissez-faire at the prospect of winning or losing against his peers.
He quirked his lips, studying her as though there were a mark on her face or an errant lock of hair that she’d forgotten to pin. She swiped her glove across her cheek.
“Eleanor, are you aware that games can be enjoyed even when they are not won?”
The fizz of her stomach as he said her name so casually was at odds with the familiar hollow feeling that appeared at the thought of losing. “The point is to win, is it not?”
His eyes narrowed as though he wasn’t sure if she was serious or joking. “No. Not really.” He gestured to the various games set up on the wide, flat plain. “Now, which do you want to try your hand at?”
Eleanor shied away, shaking her head. “I am perfectly fine watching, thank you.” She had never attempted any of these games and was not about to do so for the first time in front of an audience. “I will cheer you on from the sidelines.”
Hetut-tutted. “Come now. Isn’t it more fun to competeagainst me than to watch? I challenge you to a game of Diablo.” He indicated a couple who were throwing hourglass-shaped spools into the air and catching them on strings held between sticks.
Absolutely not. The spools moved too fast and the point of contact between the string and the spool was far too small. She pressed her mouth into a hard line and took another step backward. “You can have this one, Your Grace. I concede.”
He arched an eyebrow. “I didn’t think you a coward.” The words rankled. From his expression, he knew they did. He stood there, waiting, fully expecting her to succumb to the bait and agree to a match. He didn’t know her as well as he thought he did. Choosing not to attempt a feat when you knew you wouldn’t succeed wasn’t cowardice. It was smart. There were plenty of things she could do well, so she’d focus on those instead.
“Did you know that the game of Diablo originated in China? It is their version of a yo-yo.”
He crossed his arms. “Did you know you are trying to avoid the conversation by distracting me with oddities?”
She huffed. “I am not a coward.” She had mettle. She had a surfeit of mettle. She had enough mettle that she would confront a duke in the middle of a ballroom for all the world to see. Or did he not remember? That was hardly the mark of a coward.
His stance did not shift. If anything, he seemed even more implacable. “What else would you call someone who refuses to play because they might not win?”
She gritted her teeth. “Working to your strengths is not cowardice.” It was sensible.
He took her hand and tried to tow her to the basket where thespare juggling cups were stored, but she dug her heels firmly into the ground.
