Page 35 of The Lady Knows Best

“Well, they don’t lure the bees to their doom, it’s true, but those thorns aren’t exactly sweet and gentle. And we’ve any number of poisonous plants that seem innocent. Mistletoe, for example.”

“I’m not sure I would classify mistletoe as innocent.”

Innocent didn’t begin to describe the expression on his face, either, the suggestive movement of his mouth, the knowing lift of his brows.

It was an expression that made her . . . well, hot inside. Or it would, if she weren’t already flushed from the temperature in the glasshouse.

“I don’t think you can blame your Christmas party misdeeds on a plant,” she said stiffly.

He laughed. “How right you are. Too many games of snapdragon must have been the culprit, then. All those brandy-soaked raisins.”

She sent him a chiding glance. “You are incorrigible.”

“And you are delightfully easy to provoke.” He reached for her hand and threaded it through his arm, so that they had to walk side by side, though the space between the plant-laden tables and various large stone urns was almost too narrow. She was aware every time his thigh brushed hers. “This courtship scheme of yours has been most enlightening.”

“That is the goal of courtship, is it not? To learn something of the character of the person to whom you propose to tie yourself for the rest of your life?”

“Is it?” The question sounded almost genuine. “I confess I do not have any prior experience.”

“But you and Miss Grey—”

“I had neither opportunity nor need to court her. Her father sought the match and Miss Grey, being a dutiful daughter, agreed. I saw her out of company only once prior to that fateful encounter in the library—though I suppose I cannot really say that incident was ‘out of company,’ can I?” He laughed, but the sound was rueful. “In any case, we had not enjoyed more than five minutes of private conversation, all the time it took for me to request the honor of her hand and her to give it—reluctantly, as it turned out.” He paused, as if wrestling with the implication of those words. “I did not know she fancied someone else.”

“Nor did I,” said Daphne. “If she had explained as much in her letter, I might have counseled her differently.”

“Oh?” The brightness returned to his voice, but any hint of sincerity had gone. “Would you have advised her to go through with the marriage instead? Wait until she could style herself as a viscountess before cuckolding me with her coal merchant?”

An instinctive stiffness spread down Daphne’s spine. “I beg your pardon?”

She would have withdrawn her hand from his arm, but he tightened his grip. “Forgive me.” His voice was quieter again, but intense. She was almost glad they were side by side and she couldn’t look directly at his face. “I didn’t mean that. I only wish she would have been honest with me—but what right had I to expect any such thing? Was I honest with her?”

“About the wager, you mean?”

The shoulder nearest her hitched in a sort of shrug. She glanced up at him again, but he was deliberately avoiding her gaze now, his eyes tracing the path of a bougainvillea vine being trained to climb the building’s frame to the ceiling.

Her head was spinning. She’d thought she understood the situation, understood him. Nothing about Lord Deveraux gave the impression of depth and complexity.

Was it possible his affable façade was the most complex thing about the man?

“Do you mean—? Was there—is there—someone you wish to marry?” She thought of what he’d told her, the night of the Clearwaters’ ball. “Someone, perhaps, who does not fulfill the terms of the wager?”

“Is there someone I wish to . . . ?” A sort of laugh gusted from his chest. “What questions are these, my dear? And from you? How is a gentleman to answer them?”

“But you said—” She would have reminded him that he’d told her, twice at least, that he was no gentleman.

He spoke over her, clearly anticipating what she had been about to say. “I know my duty. I struck a bargain with you, Miss Burke. One I have every intention of fulfilling.”

Those words gave her something like a twinge of conscience. She was the one who had made that pact, fully intending to break it. “If you were to lose the wager, would you be . . . ? That is, if very large sums are involved, I suppose you might be left necessitous.”

“A gentleman’s debts of honor are not really about the money, as I suspect you already know. But rest assured,” he added, patting her hand, “your future husband is not poor.”

Nevertheless, she had clearly struck a nerve. Beneath her palm, a fresh tension had spread into his forearm.

“Forgive me,” she said. “I did not mean to be impertinent.”

How on earth had the conversation worked its way to this point? Was she really begging his forgiveness?

“Not at all,” he insisted. “As you said, a more open understanding of one another is the goal of courtship.”