The corners of his mouth twitched in a shape that vaguely, maybe, possibly was the start of a smile. “Your name, my lady. Unless you’d like me to call you Tiberius.”
“Annalise “ Belatedly, she appeared to realize that she was still holding his wrist and her cheeks lit up with a blush every bit as adorable as her nose before she snatched her hand away and took a step back. “Lady Annalise Buttercream.”
“Buttercream,” he repeated.
“Yes, I’m afraid so. Although I do like Tiberius.” A grin pushed up her rosy cheeks. “It has a nice ring to it should I ever decide to turn into a goose.”
“Lady Annalise, it is a… unusual pleasure to make your acquaintance. I am Derrick Blake, the Duke of Tennyson”
He waited for her to gasp, or giggle, or - as one woman had done last year - faint.
People, especially women, had odd reactions when he revealed who he was.
But Annalise didn’t do any of those things.
Instead, her eyes narrowing ever-so-slightly, she asked him a question. A rather peculiar question, in and of itself. But then again, everything about their interaction thus far had a certain air of peculiarity.
“Your Grace… do you like poetry?”
Part II
“There is no instinct like that of the heart.”~English poet Lord Byron
Annalise had dreamt of this day foryears. A decade, almost. Ever since she was a young girl of ten, she had imagined what would happen when she met the Prince Charming of every fairytale she’d ever read and that had been read to her.
She had dreamt of what he would look like. What he would say. How he would act.
Thus far, the Duke of Tennyson was exceeding every single expectation.
First and foremost, he was handsome. Dashingly so, with dark, thick hair that swept low over his left brow and a matching shadow of whiskers across his strong jawline he’d not yet shaved. Admittedly his eyes weren’t blue, as she’d told Becca she was hoping for, but the dark mahogany flecked with shards of amber suited him quite well. He was also tall, rugged, and - herknees did a strange wobble when she thought of the word she would never dare say aloud -virile.
He did have a rather strange aversion to geese. But he’d fed them nonetheless in a display of kindness that had warmed her heart. There was gentleness as well, underneath a bit of gruff. No one wasperfect, after all. Not even a prince. Or in this case, a duke. A title that honestly didn’t sway her one way or the other, but she knew it would please her father which was, in the grand scheme of things, quite important as she did love him despite the restrictions he’d placed upon her. All well-intentioned, to be sure. She knew the death of her mother had left him devastated and he’d done his best to keep his daughter from succumbing to a similar fate, be it preventing her from going to a ball (“the roads are too icy, what if the carriage crashes?”), or a dinner party (“what if you choke on the salmon?”), or a play (“the theater steps are perilous, what if you fall?”).
Those ‘what ifs’ had kept her secluded from her peers in a world of her own imagination with only books, the outdoors, and Becca to keep her curious mind busy. Some might have harbored resentment, even hate, but not Annalise. It simply was not in her nature. But that did not mean she hadn’t quietly spent most of her adult life yearning for something more. Yearning for something bigger. Yearning for a love that would take her away from her prison, for even a gilded cage was still a cage. And her father would be loath to release her from it if he did not approve of the man opening the door. He wouldalsobe aghast to learn she’d snuck away from her lady’s maid shortly after arriving at Hyde Park, but desperate times called for desperate measures, and as her twentieth birthday loomed, she was becoming increasingly desperate.
Desperate to escape.
Desperate to live a larger life.
Desperate to find true love.
“Your Grace… do you like poetry?” she asked, biting her lip in anticipation of his response. He had to love it. She just knew it. Why, with a name like-
“Poetry?” he repeated, looking at her oddly. “No, I cannot abide it.”
Her jaw dropped. “Are you sure?”
“Yes, positive.”
“But… but your name is DerrickBlake, the Duke ofTennyson.”
“And?” he said, appearing nonplussed.
“And those are poets! Wonderful, widely celebrated poets! Geniuses of their craft!”
Her perhaps-not-so-perfect-after-all prince shrugged. “Wouldn’t know. Never read them.”
“You’ve never read Tennyson,” she said faintly. “Do you like dancing?”
