Her maid did not respond to that, for which Gabriella was grateful. Especially since she knew she was lying, not only to Anna, but to herself. Because the truth . . . the real truth, was a terrifying thing to face, her options impossibly difficult to consider. And Huntley . . . he was a friend, nothing more. Their acquaintance had been brief. To even consider marrying him, with all the consequences that might follow, would be mad.
More mad than marrying a man whom you don’t even like?
Already, in little more than one week, she felt a greater connection to Huntley than she’d ever done to Fielding. Huntley had actually listened to her, shown an interest, and been intrigued by her curious passion for insects.
She stepped through the parting in the hedge, distracted by all the worries that crowded her mind. Could she break her connection to Fielding? Did she dare to? She had no other plan than him. And her parents would never allow her to marry Huntley. Provided he asked, of course, which was rather unlikely since he had so much else to think about at the moment than acquiring a wife.
A movement at the edge of her vision halted her thoughts on the matter. She instinctively turned toward it, almost stumbling the moment she spotted him.
“Goodness,” Anna murmured.
Indeed, Gabriella thought, for there was the duke sprawled out on the grass, eyes closed, and with a very satisfied smile upon his lips. The pose was one of complete relaxation, no hint of tension about him at all.
“Wait here,” Gabriella whispered to Anna as she took a step closer, studying him as she approached—appreciating the opportunity to see him at rest. But out here? On the grass? It was most unusual. Her gaze dropped to one of his hands, palm down in the grass, the fingers gently moving as though caressing the ground. The movement produced a flexing of tendons, a tightening of skin across reddened knuckles. He’d been boxing again.
And just like that, the image of him standing before her, bare chested while sweat ran down the sides of his face, flew to the front of her mind. She gasped. He opened his eyes, staring straight up into her face. His mouth tilted, and then he smiled. “You’re watching me again.”
Heat rushed to her face, burning her until she feared she might combust. “I . . .” What on earth had she been thinking not to make her presence known? “I didn’t want to disturb you.” A silly excuse. She’d wanted to get a good look at him—a private look at him.
He held her gaze just long enough to make her cringe with embarrassment. “You should rise,” she suddenly blurted. “A gentleman doesn’t remain seated or . . .” she waved her hand “lying down, when a lady arrives. He stands up and greets her properly.”
He seemed to consider this and for a second she thought he would follow her advice, but then he said, “How about you come down here instead?”
“What?” She gaped at him.
He patted the grass by his side, then raised a challenging eyebrow. “I think you’ll like it.”
She didn’t doubt it for a second. But she was a grown woman, for heaven’s sake. Such things weren’t done, no matter how prone one might be to spontaneity. “Your sisters will be expecting me. I ought to go and find them.”
“They’re having embroidery lessons,” Huntley said, rising onto his elbows. “Richardson arranged for Mrs. Bryant, our housekeeper, to teach them.”
“Oh. Well.” Disappointment suddenly filled her. “I’ll come back tomorrow then.”
He tilted his head. She didn’t move, torn between doing the right thing and just letting go. He patted the grass once more and she glanced back at Anna, who seemed to be giving a potted plant a great deal of attention.
“If you join me, I’ll show you the beetle I found.”
She allowed herself to give in. “Very well, but just for a moment.”
He offered his hand to help her down and she accepted, the contact sending ripples of energy up her arm and into her chest. She caught her breath and lowered herself to the ground while little shivers raced down her spine at the gentle squeeze of his hand. He did not let go right away as he ought, holding her for a second longer than what was deemed proper. “You’re so soft.” The whisper breezed against her cheek, accompanied by the scraping of a callused thumb against her palm.
“I . . .” The word was more of a croak than anything else. He let her hand go, allowing her to win back some of her composure. She tried again. “I shouldn’t be here like this. With you, I mean. It’s not the least bit appropriate.”
“Your maid is here too,” he pointed out. “You’re at no risk of being ravished.”
The smile that followed was filled with so much cheekiness that it was impossible for Gabriella to refrain from laughing. “I should hope not.”
“Unless of course you’d like to be.” He waggled his eyebrows.
“Your Grace.” He was making her uncomfortable again, the worst part being that she actually felt like he’d already done what he now suggested, her dream a memory based on her own imaginings, her desires . . . She licked her lips, then realized he’d followed the movement, his pupils dilating slightly as he watched. “A gentleman doesn’t say such things,” she told him sternly. If only they could find a way to revert to the conversational friendship they’d shared the day before.
He drew back a bit, his expression changing to something more debonair. “You’re bound by too many rules. If you’re not careful, you’ll just be another Society lady one day, no different from the next.”
“But . . .” She stopped herself. Perhaps he had a point? She considered the ways in which her life had changed since Victoria’s marriage. Her parents had given her more attention than ever before, and she’d faced daily reminders of how to speak and behave. “You must learn to restrain yourself,” her mother had said as she’d brought up the bumblebee incident from Gabriella’s childhood. “You must make them forget that you ever behaved so poorly.” Lessons in etiquette had followed. She’d been schooled in how to walk and how to sit, how to stand and even how to listen. And although she hadn’t thought it possible to begin with, she’d changed. Rules had become a significant part of her life—a structure that would lead her to her destination without incident. But where was the joy in that? She’d allowed herself to be molded into a creature she no longer recognized—a woman who’d forgotten how to live.
What a momentous bit of insight that was.
She glanced at Huntley and found him watching her with interest. You want more than this. Perhaps running from it was the wrong idea. Perhaps facing it would be better. “I don’t know what to do.” She hadn’t meant to speak the words aloud, and yet she had.
