“Of course not,” she said honestly. “I’m glad that you do such good work. You must think me terribly idle, engaged in naught but eating bonbons and embroidering cushions all day.”
He narrowed his eyes. “I could never think such a thing of you. Remember, I did research. Now, if you enjoy embroidery, Lady Beatrice, I would never think less of you. For it’s just a skill like any other that requires great attention and practice. But I cannot imagine you sitting about, eating bonbons, staring at your ceiling, contemplating nothing but the next hat of the season.”
“Hats are wonderful things,” she exclaimed defensively. “Why should I not contemplate them? They are made with great skill and labor. And fashion is important.”
“Fashion is important?” he echoed, clearly astonished by her sudden passion for clothes. “I am surprised to hear you say so.”
“Fashion is exceptionally important, Your Grace,” she explained, sitting a little straighter. “For what a lady wears dictates what she’s able to do.”
He studied her. “I don’t follow.”
“Of course you don’t,” she said without rancor. She was ready to shrug off his ignorance, but then she realized what a loss of opportunity that would be. She wanted him to understand how clothes changed a woman’s life. “Have you given any thought to the fashions of the previous century versus the fashions of now?”
He shrugged his immaculately clad shoulders. “Not particularly, if you must know.”
She refrained from rolling her eyes at his cavalier attitude—an attitude he was not alone in. “Are you opposed to bright color?” she asked, genuinely curious. So many men now valued themselves by the cut of their plain breeches and the austerity of their coat.
“No, not at all,” he admitted easily. “I recall men applying makeup, donning elaborate wigs, and enjoying a good red heel. I don’t mind if my fellow men are happy to do so, but I do not think that I should look particularly well in pale paint and rouged lips. And I loathe wigs.” He frowned. “Terribly itchy.”
She laughed, pleased that he was far more open than most. “I have to say, I do think the new fashion suits you very well. The truth of it is, the dress of fifteen years ago was not very functional. While I do wish gentlemen were allowed to wear far more color than is fashionable at present, I think the idea of being able to stride about in Hessians must feel very nice. I have no idea what that feels like.”
She sighed, considering the bliss of pantaloons, an item of clothing denied her.
“You wish to stride about in Hessians?” he asked as he started to laugh, caught her gaze, then coughed.
“Whyever not?” she demanded, determined. She’d often wondered what it was like. “I can only imagine what it should feel like to be in breeches.” She nodded toward the stage. “Actresses occasionally get to wear them, and I do envy that greatly. For instance, Viola, in her pants role in Twelfth Night, spends most of the play in men’s clothes.”
It was extremely irritating that her stride would always be confined to the width of her skirts. “I can only imagine how delightful it must be to scamper about, and climb, and go anywhere that one might wish and not have to worry about their skirts getting caught up or even fitting through a door.”
His eyes widened. “How true. I recall from my childhood the way ladies had to turn sideways to achieve entry to a room.”
“Because you’re a man,” she intoned. “Think of all those ladies in a room, trying to get about, turning this way and that, and ensuring their wigs did not land upon the floor like a furry little friend.”
“You do profess the truth with humor, Lady Beatrice.”
“The truth is often humorous and horrifying,” she replied without irony.
He hesitated, then said, “Perhaps one day you’ll get to wear breeches after all. My estate is vast. You could don breeches if you wish when you go riding. No one would see you, except perhaps some of my tenants. And you will visit, since your cousin shall be my sister-in-law.”
She eyed him carefully, suspicious of a trap. “Are you quite serious?” she asked, barely daring to believe such an offer.
Even her uncle had never suggested she be allowed to go about in breeches and a shirt.
“I don’t see why not,” he said, his brow furrowing.
“I cannot believe I am saying this, but you’ve surprised me,” she admitted.
“Have I?” he asked, looking rather pleased.
“Truly, I don’t know what to make of you,” she whispered.
And just as he leaned in toward her and said, “I promise that I will come tomorrow for our lesson,” her uncle came up behind them and clapped the duke on the shoulder in a jovial moment.
“Your Grace, Your Grace, I think it would be most wonderful if you kept Lady Beatrice company throughout the play.” Her uncle beamed hopefully at the duke, his silver hair shining in the golden light. “You two seem to be getting along as well as two peas in a pod, and I should hate to see that interrupted. Besides, I have some questions for Lord Benjamin about Oxford and all that.”
The duke seemed to tense, and she wondered if he was actually horrified by the idea of having to sit by her for the rest of the play.
Did he dislike her company so very much?