A Duke of Her Own(8)

She could flaunt her bosom and chase men up and down shady alleys. Or she could just marry the duke in front of her, since he was there. At hand. Women had married for worse reasons.

"Are yours nice children?" she asked.

He blinked. "I haven't the faintest idea."

"Didn't you say that three of them are now in your nursery?"

"Yes."

"Surely you have visited them? I would imagine that moving from brothel to ducal town house would be rather shocking."

"Did your father pay visits to the nursery?"

"Yes, he did. Though more often we were summoned to the drawing room."

"I haven't got around to summoning them yet," Villiers said, an uneasy look in his eye. "My housekeeper found some nannies and I assume everyone is comfortable."

Eleanor didn't like the sound of that. She thought it unlikely that the duke's household had simply absorbed the presence of three bastard children without significant upheaval. Servants tended to be far more conservative than their masters. The ton would surely look askance at the presence of such children under the duke's roof once they learned of it, which meant that his servants were probably mutinying belowstairs. Not that it was her business. Still...

"I have meant to visit Lisette these past two years," she said, surprising herself. He bowed. "Perhaps I might meet you in Sevenoaks."

Eleanor put her fingers on his outstretched arm. "I shall have to ask my mother, Your Grace. She may not be free to accompany me to Kent."

He smiled down at her. He knew as well as she did that her mother would throw all her engagements to the wind in order to further a marriage between the Duke of Villiers and her daughter, but he was polite enough not to point it out. "Of course."

"She will not be happy to learn of your family," she observed, in a coda to the unspoken question of her mother's approval of any prospective betrothal.

"Which makes it all the more surprising to discover that you are so calmly accepting of their existence. It seems you resemble neither your father nor your mother, Lady Eleanor."

"I am certainly temperamentally different from my parents. And you, do you resemble your parents?"

"They are both dead. I hardly knew my father, and had very little to say to my mother." There was something in his voice that did not welcome further enquiry on that front. "Where is your country seat?" she asked.

He looked down at her and said, "You really don't know anything about me, do you?" "Why should I?"

"There are so few dukes that I know quite a lot about them without even trying. I believe your brother is great friends with young Duke of Astley, for example." "Indeed." She climbed the stairs.

"I haven't seen Astley in a few years," Villiers said. "I suppose you know him well."

"As you say, he is friends with my brother. He spent a great deal of time with us while we were all growing up," Eleanor said steadily. "Of course now that he's married, we see him much less frequently. I believe we shall find my mother in the refreshments tent."

"You should probably remove this curl," he said. With a start, she realized that one of the fat curls Rackfort had pinned into her hair was dangling by one pin alone. Villiers's fingers brushed her cheek; he twisted and the curl lay in his palm.

"It looks like a country slug," Eleanor said. She pulled off the other one as well.

"As opposed to a city slug?"

"A city slug would be wearing powder," she said, smiling at him. She tossed the slugs into a nearby hedge.

He almost smiled back. She could see it in his eyes. "Would you like me to escort you to your mother?"

If the duke arrived at her mother's side, with Eleanor on his arm, rumors of a betrothal would flare through London. "I believe not," she said. "I shall consider the matter, Your Grace. Perhaps, if I decide to continue our acquaintance, I shall pay a visit to Kent."

"You are truly a very interesting woman," he said slowly.

"I assure you that you are quite mistaken. I am positively tedious in almost every respect."

"Not so. Do you know how unusual it is for a duke—myself—to speak to an eligible young lady without the woman in question making an overt expression of fierce interest?"

"I do apologize if I insulted you again," she said. "First I compared you to an incontinent canine, and now I have apparently not marshaled the proper enthusiasm."

His eyes did smile, even though his mouth didn't curl. "Does that apology mean you are mustering enthusiasm for my charms?"

"I expect we feel precisely the same way about each other," she said. "Cautiously interested. It appears that I suit your criteria, and you seem to suit mine, such as they are."