“That’s the Green Park, miss,” said Jarvis. “And there’s Hyde Park Corner ahead, and on the right-hand side is Hyde Park, where—”
Louder and nearer shouts made Jarvis break off midsentence.
It was their driver who was shouting.
Zoe moved to the opposite window.
A driver in a nearby hackney was gesturing and shouting. Her driver seemed to be arguing with him.
“They want us to stop, miss,” said Jarvis. “Oh, my. That’s His Grace.”
The other hackney was slowing, and the duke was leaning out of the window. Through her vehicle’s closed window, Zoe couldn’t make out what he was saying, but she recognized the strong, deep voice that could carry effortlessly across a square.
Her hackney came to a stop.
“Oh, miss, he’s getting out of the hackney.”
Zoe didn’t wait for this news. She was already sliding across the seat and grabbing the door handle. She wrenched the door open. It was a good distance to the ground, but Zoe leapt. Jarvis shrieked.
Zoe ran—not toward the other carriage and the man who’d recalled her existence at last—but into a footpath leading into the area Jarvis had called the Green Park.
Five
It was early afternoon, well before the fashionable hour for promenading in Hyde Park. As a result, the Duke of Marchmont’s acquaintances were denied the entertaining sight of His Grace leaping out of a hackney near Hyde Park Corner, dashing across Piccadilly, and running—yes, actually running—into the Green Park.
He did not have to run far.
His legs were a good deal longer than his prey’s, and he was not encumbered with skirt, petticoat, and corset.
He caught up with her a short distance from the lodge. Most of the park was bare of trees. In the grounds near the lodge and the adjoining area near the smaller basin, though, they provided a degree of shade, as well as a shield of sorts from the observation of passersby in Piccadilly. Those on the footpaths, however, would get an eyeful.
Not that the duke cared who was watching.
He was far too irritated to care.
Though he’d caught up with her, she kept on running, obliging him to trot alongside—or throw himself on her and bring her down.
He was seriously considering the latter course of action when she slowed to a walk, one hand to her side.
She’d given herself a cramp, the little fool.
“You are an idiot,” he said, further annoyed to find himself breathing hard.
Though mentally lazy, he was a physically active man, and he’d run only a short distance. If it occurred to him that emotion was making him breathless, the idea did not get far before being thrust into the special mental cupboard with other unwelcome thoughts. “How far did you think you’d get, running uphill, wearing a corset?”
“If I were speaking to you, I would tell you that the corset does not fit properly.” She stuck her pretty nose in the air and walked on. “But I am not speaking to you.”
Whatever else he was prepared for, it was not this. For one of the few times in his life, he was taken aback. “Not speaking to me? Not speaking to me?”
“You promised you would give me a place in your world,” she said. “You said nothing could be simpler. A week ago you said this, yet you have done nothing.”
This was monstrous unfair. He’d attended the Princess Elizabeth’s wedding last night, where everybody behaved with the utmost decorum and where no one could expect any hint of fun. There never was any fun when the Queen was about. He could have been with his friends or with Lady Tarling, but no. He’d gone to the boring wedding, all for the prime opportunity it offered to enlist the Prince Regent in his campaign.
The campaign for Zoe.
But the Duke of Marchmont never allowed anyone but her father to question his actions. Even then, all he did was pretend to listen. He rarely paid attention and certainly didn’t explain or defend himself.
“I was busy,” he said.
“Perhaps the task isn’t as simple as you pretended,” she said. “Perhaps it’s a joke to you.”
It was no joke. Far from it. When a gentleman agreed to do something, he did it. He had been doing it. He’d been so busy on her behalf that he hadn’t had time to visit his mistress.
But the Duke of Marchmont never complained and never explained. He remained silent, seething.
She glanced at him, then away. She took a deep breath, apparently to calm herself. “I suppose I ought to remember that you are not very intelligent,” she said.
He watched her bosom rise and fall.
His anger seeped away.
She wore a pale yellow carriage dress trimmed with green. Under the bonnet’s brim, dark gold curls danced by her ears. Adderwood had called her a peach, and that was more than apt. The warm glow pinkening her cheeks made them seem like sun-kissed peaches, and her soft lips glistened.
If she hadn’t been the daughter of the only man in the world for whom he’d lay down his life, the Duke of Marchmont might have tried to find out exactly how innocent she was.
But she was Lexham’s daughter, and in a snit about something, and all in all, perhaps it would be wisest simply to humor her.
“I’m shocked, deeply shocked, that no one’s told you,” he said. “I am not intelligent. You had better explain carefully. And try not to use any big words.”
She shot him one of her sidelong glances, a flash of blue suspicion.
“Ask your father,” he said. “I’m surprised he didn’t warn you what a thickhead I am. I’m sure he’s mentioned it to me many times.”
“He did tell me so,” she said. “He told me not to expect too much.”
“Ouch,” he said. “‘A hit, a very palpable hit.’”
She rolled her eyes. “I see how it is,” she said. “No matter. Some things even you can understand. I need clothes.”
“You do? Has my thick brain somehow overlooked the fact that you’re naked?”
“Not these clothes,” she said, drawing her hand down the front of the dress in the most provocative manner. “This is last year’s dress!”
“How appalling. You must take it off immediately.”
“Is that a dare?” she said.
He had replied without thinking. Now images from the past crowded into his mind: Zoe challenging and taunting her brothers, Zoe taking every “you mustn’t” and “you oughtn’t” and “you can’t” and “you wouldn’t” as a challenge or taunt.
What he’d jestingly suggested was a dare of the first order. For a lady to take off her dress in public was not merely unthinkably improper; it was practically impossible. Undoing the numerous and complicated fastenings—which were located for the convenience of the maid, not the mistress—would require the agility of an acrobat and a contortionist combined. No lady would get far unaided.
On the other hand, this was Zoe. She’d find a way to do it or die trying. And the process of her finding a way to do it was bound to be entertaining.
The temptation to dare her was almost overpowering.
But he collected his wits and said, “No, it was a joke.”
“This dress is no joke to me,” she said. “I shall get no respect in Society if I dress like a dowd. My attire must be in the latest mode. I should not have to explain this to you. You told me about Beau Brummell. Even my sisters admit you are fashionable, though it kills them to say so. And I can see it for myself: your dress tells me that you understand these matters.”
He said, “Actually, I leave it to my valet Hoare to understand.”
“And does Hoare go to the tailor to choose your garments as well?”
“No, I go to the tailor, but I leave the decisions to him,” he said. “He knows I don’t care. Still, any tailor would know that if he dresses me badly, his reputation will suffer and he’ll lose custom.”
This seemed to give her pause.
He watched her ponder, and something in her expression made him imagine her mind working, abso
rbing the few sentences he’d uttered, and filing the knowledge away for future reference. He pictured her mind as a miniature of London’s General Post Office, filled with lines of workers at the long benches, neatly filing letters into their proper slots.
“Do you mean to have your valet order my clothes?” she said.
“No.”
“Did you mean to leave the ordering of my wardrobe to my sisters?”
“Gad, no.”
She folded her arms and waited.
He waited, too, drawing out the moment, because sunlight kissed her nose and glanced off the curly tendrils escaping from under her bonnet, and because what might be a smile hovered at the corners of her mouth.
He stood, he was aware, some inches too close for propriety. A passing breeze carried her scent to him.
“I collect it must be me, then,” he said.
“Who else?” she said. “You’re the leader of fashion. I am to be your…protégée—that is the correct word, isn’t it?”
It sounded most incorrect and very naughty the way she said it, but he nodded.
“Then you must supervise my dressing,” she said.
He could see himself in her dressing room, saying, Take off your clothes. He could see himself helping her take them off, starting with…