Eleanor shifted uncomfortably beneath Mr. Knight’s gaze. He looked at her as if he wanted to pry open her head and peer inside.
Well. He could scarcely have stumbled on the truth here in the middle of Green Park, could he? That was impossible…wasn’t it?
She moved from foot to foot, trying to ease her aches and pains. Now that the excitement of the rescue had ended, she was aware that her palms hurt where she’d scraped them and she’d landed on her knee wrong. She wouldn’t complain, of course. Mr. Knight would tell her it was her own fault, and right now his eyes looked cold and thoughtful, and his broad, delicious mouth grew thin.
Then his lids swept over his eyes, and when he looked at her again, she could see no censure—and no interest. “You don’t know what this dog is or where it came from, except that Lord Mauger is no doubt right—it is flea-bitten.”
Her ire rose again. “So I should only care about creatures with the proper pedigree and the proper hygiene? Thank you, sir, but no. I abhor cruelty, especially to poor beasts who can’t do anything to help themselves, and if you can’t see the value of caring for the lost and the forlorn, then I’m sorry for you.”
In a cool, flat tone, he said, “Not at the cost of your life.”
Bitterly aware that her life was only valuable to him because he believed her to be the duchess, Eleanor shrugged. “My life is not so important.” Then some errant resentment made her taunt, “Oh, but I forgot—I’m your passport into the ton.”
He apparently didn’t appreciate cynicism, at least not from her, for his voice held a warning. “Madeline…”
Madeline. She wasn’t Madeline, she was Eleanor—but this was no time for confessions. She gestured behind him. “We have attracted an audience.” An audience comprised of a number of guests from the Picards’ ball, and a few others, unknown to her, but costumed in the finest garb and obviously noble. All ogled her in openly expressed amazement, and two of the ladies released a series of high-pitched giggles.
To her astonishment, she wasn’t so much embarrassed as annoyed. She hated scenes, yes, but these people needed an occupation if their best entertainment was tittering about a dog rescue.
“Poor Mr. Knight,” she murmured. “Your plan to impress the ton with your sophistication and your fiancée has taken a downward turn.” Sinking back down beside the dog, she left him to deal with the situation.
But he surprised her. With a smile that looked genuinely amused, he faced the crowd.
One gentleman in particular seemed to hold his attention. The gentleman was perfectly groomed, with a crisp cravat, a snowy white shirt, and boots so shiny and black that the sun gleamed on the leather. He looked thoroughly shocked by the proceedings, and Eleanor idly reflected that Madeline would have a dreadful time clearing up her reputation when she finally arrived in London. Yet Eleanor wasn’t nearly as sorry as she might have been, and growing more impatient.
Where was Madeline? This situation was disintegrating by the minute.
“Brummel,” Remington said. “Good to see you.”
Brummel. Eleanor knew that name. Beau Brummel was the arbiter of English society, the man who spent hours tying his cravat, the man who cared little for aristocratic prestige, and everything for an ideal appearance.
Eleanor was aware she failed to present an ideal appearance. In fact, she was a mess, and without a bit of contrition, she reflected that Mr. Knight was in trouble now.
“Mr. Knight.” Beau Brummel stepped forward and bowed to Eleanor. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure of meeting the lady.”
With a last scratch under the dog’s chin, Eleanor rose as Remington made introductions.
Beau Brummel’s gaze flicked over the scene. “You…like dogs, Your Grace?”
With innate honesty, Eleanor answered, “I find them more trustworthy than most humans.”
“I don’t know any trustworthy dogs,” Beau Brummel said.
“Do you know any trustworthy humans?” She was speaking of the little crowd gathered behind him, the people who last night had thronged about her and after this escapade would shun her.
To her astonishment, Beau Brummel comprehended—and smiled. “Your Grace, you’re all too right.” In a solicitous tone that revealed his true concern, he said, “But I fear that you’ve ruined your riding costume.”
With an audacity that surprised even her, she said, “I’m the duchess of Magnus. I set the fashion. Tomorrow you’ll see ladies riding with torn gloves and their hats askew.”
Brummel was startled into a chuckle. “I would be most honored if you would walk with me.”
“Toward the horses. I suppose I should go and repair my appearance.” And her injuries were hurting her more and more.
“Of course, to the horses,” Beau Brummel agreed.
They strolled side by side toward the wood where the groom waited; Mr. Knight and the dog walked a step behind.
When they had moved away from the mob, Beau Brummel said, “I understand that you’ve been away from London for quite some time, Your Grace. If I might be so bold as to offer advice…you have a style all your own and, I suspect, a prediliction for trouble.”
“She does, indeed,” Mr. Knight offered.
Eleanor shot him a glare—and checked on the limping dog. It was keeping up, but it couldn’t go far. She switched her attention back to Beau Brummel and pretended it had never wavered.
With a weary gesture, Beau Brummel asked, “Is the multitude still watching?”
“Of course,” Mr. Knight answered. “They always watch you, Brummel.”
His blatant flattery startled Eleanor, but Beau Brummel’s answer startled her more.
“My popularity is a cross I must bear.” He looked serious, leaving Eleanor in awe of his conceit. “Your Grace, I wouldn’t suggest anything quite so outrageous as this escapade again—”
If he only knew the scandal that would erupt when Madeline arrived!
“—but you should continue as you’ve begun. You are the future duchess. You will set the fashion. You are a belle—I have decreed it. You have a marvelous manner. Never apologize for your eccentricities.” He swept her tattered riding costume with a glance. “Although, do remember—a well-gowned traveler is a happy traveler.”
Eleanor maintained a straight face with difficulty, and she suspected Mr. Knight shared her amusement. Yet she wasn’t like him. He wasn’t like her. So to think that the two of them were of like mind on any matter disturbed and distressed her.
Beau Brummel had finished making his pronouncements to her, and asked, “Mr. Knight, may I assume I’ve been sent an invitation to your ball?”
“You have,” Mr. Knight assured him.
“I’ll be there.” Beau Brummel placed the back of his hand against his forehead in an affected faint. “Now I have walked too far for my delicate constitution. Farewell, Your Grace. Farewell, Mr. Knight.”
Together, they watched him mince away.
“Well.” Mr. Knight’s mouth had a suspicious pucker. “That went well.”
Her heart sank. She was right. He was amused by Beau Brummel. They did share a sentiment—a disturbing thought and one she put away to contemplate later, in the dark of night, a time when she unfortunately woke and thought of Mr. Knight. “Obviously it went well. Because I am the future duchess and I will set the fashion.” Leaning down, she gently stroked the dog.
“What are you doing with this…animal?”
She hadn’t known what she was doing with it, but now she did. “I’m befriending it.” Gently, she picked it up, taking care not to touch its hurt leg. It was just light enough that she could carry it, just heavy enough to drag her down. Tucking it under her arm, she trudged toward Diriday. The dog’s gangly legs stuck out, its weight pulled at her arms. Her hands hurt, her knee ached, and it seemed the distance to the horse grew as she walked.
Remington walked beside her, his gait effortless, and he made no attempt to help her. “Are you doing this as some sort of revenge on me? Because I will force you to become my wife?”
They reached the horses and stepped into the wood, out of the sun and the sight of any curiosity-seekers who waited for further scandalous exhibitions. The groom tugged his forelock and discreetly stepped away.
Panting, she put the dog down. It huddled at her feet, while she put her hands on her hips. “Mr. Knight, I know this is a difficult concept for you to grasp, but not everything I do or say is related to you. In fact, the world does not revolve around you. The moon lights in the night sky without you. And my existence does not depend upon you. Now.” She again bent down to pick up the dog. “I will take my dog home and give it a bath—without thinking of you in any way.”
“Wait.” Taking her arm, Mr. Knight pulled her erect once more. “I would not have you continue in this reckless behavior.”
Once again, he confused her. “What reckless behavior?”
“Of not thinking of me.” Sliding his arm around her waist, he kissed her.
Their first kiss had been gentle and enticing, their second demanding…and enticing. This one was once again different. With a gentle nip on her lower lip, he insisted she think of him, and when she opened her mouth to scold, he kissed her with wicked intent. He wanted all of her attention, and with his experience, he knew how to get it. He seduced her with teeth and tongue. His lips moved on hers until she was insensible to the dappled sunshine, to the scent of roses on the breeze, the dog and Beau Brummel and the dilemma she faced being with him. Every thought, every feeling was absorbed in the press of his body on hers and the appetizer of pleasure he fed her.
Then he let her go. He steadied her with one hand on her elbow while she tried to gather her dignity and her prudence.
The longer she knew him, the less she knew herself.
Helping her into the saddle, he handed her the dog.
She adjusted the creature under her arm, murmured comfortingly to it, and started toward Mr. Knight’s town house.
It was frightening, to change so radically in so short a time and for so simple a reason as a kiss. Would Madeline even recognize Eleanor when she came to London? Would Eleanor recognize herself when the time came to concede her rights to Mr. Knight?
Would she surrender him? Or would she fight for him?