Free The Clarendon Rose by Kathryn Anthony Page B

desire to make amends for her overreaction.   This close, he smelled of leather oil and masculine spice mingled with a hint of sweat.   They began walking back towards the pond.  
    “It would neither do me credit as a gentlemen nor as a rake—if that’s how I’m to be cast in this scene—to agree with you in that regard, Miss Merriweather.   But you could always have conked me on the head with the wine bottle, if you felt so ardent a need to do me violence.”
    “Ah, but I would not have you be the instrument of your own undoing.   After all, it was you who brought the wine in the first place.”
    “It seems only appropriate, to my view.   The rake hoist with his own petard, so to speak,” he said mildly as they returned to the site of the picnic.  
    She released his arm and smiled up at him.   “At any rate, Your Grace, I apologize for the foray into drawing room farce.   You’d think we’d be safe from such nonsense, given the lack of drawing rooms in the area, but I have a talent for transplanting the form, it would seem.   I wouldn’t blame you if you refused, but I do hope you’ll overlook my silliness.”
    Though the corner of his lips still lifted in a hint of a smile, his expression was serious as he spoke,   “Only if you’ll overlook my own indiscretion.”
    She shook her head.   “It was hardly that.   But if that’s the only way this episode will be forgotten, I will certainly agree to it.”
    He grinned suddenly, though that darkness she had come to recognize lingered.   Yet, between that and his dimples, she found herself enchanted once again, her own mouth stretching into a helpless smile.  
    “Excellent,” he replied.
    Standing this close, she could see the way his eyes crinkled along the edges as he smiled, and her hands itched to reach up and tangle themselves into his hair.   She would draw his head down and lift her lips to meet his—
    She turned away from him abruptly and walked over to the picnic spread, settling herself on the blanket.   Emily used to bemoan her own sensual nature, which had led her to such an ignominious pass.   Until meeting the duke, Tina had believed herself blessedly devoid of that wantonness her mother had so decried.
    Having witnessed far more of the world than most women of her background tended to see, Tina had felt that the animal gruntings and movements she associated with intercourse never provided any insight into why anyone would want to do such a thing.   She had never understood where the pleasure came from.
    But, with the duke, she shocked herself by finding it difficult to think of much else.   It wasn’t simply his looks, either, she realized.   It was something about his presence.   Clarendon had suffered—she wasn’t certain how she knew that, but she did not question the truth of the knowledge.   She was drawn to his air of sadness—perhaps because some ridiculous part of her wanted to be the one to help banish that heaviness in his expression.  
    I don’t know anymore, she thought to herself, biting into another morsel of bread as she stared at the still mirror of the pond, its calm occasionally disturbed by small insects alighting upon it and skimming the surface of the water.   I only know I’m becoming a fool over him.   And I wish I knew how to stop myself.
    Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the duke settle beside her on the blanket.   She turned to him with a smile.   “Have you seen many places in the course of your travels, Your Grace?” she asked, allowing him to refill her cup.
    He shrugged.   “I have seen many places, yes.   But I cannot say I was particularly well-equipped to enjoy them.”
    “How so?”
    He sighed.   “I would not wish to shock you, Miss Merriweather.   Of course, I have a feeling that your opinion of me could hardly sink any lower than it already is, but that would not be for want of trying on my part.”
    “Are you being intentionally coy, Your Grace?”
    The duke