Page 68 of Never a Duke
“What arcane skills, Ned?”
“The ability to loiter about like a potted palm,” he said, “looking so harmless and unremarkable nobody notices me. Came in handy at university and stands me in good stead at Her Grace’s at-homes. Why?”
“Were you a housebreaker, Ned? Does something worse than a boy’s thievery lurk in your past?”
His steps slowed. “The charge that first put me in Newgate, as best I recall, was petty larceny for a bungled attempt to pick a pocket. Polite society cannot seem to leave my ancient history in peace, though.”
George certainly couldn’t. “Twenty years ago, I was still wetting my bed. Nobody feels any need to mention that, do they?”
“You are being logical, my lady. Polite society will choose vindictiveness over logic most of the time.”
All of the time.“When can you speak to Papa?”
“Will he be in later today?”
Rosalind wanted to drag Ned by the arm back to the house that very moment. To have him accost Papa at breakfast, though Papa preferred to start his day with a silent meal spent in the company of the newspapers.
“Call upon him immediately after lunch. He should be at home, and not yet closeted with his man of business. I want a special license, Ned.”
“Whereas I want to observe every courtesy. Her Grace of Walden might like to contribute to the planning of the particulars.”
God, no.A meddling duchess would complicate what ought to be a simple and expedient exchange of vows. “I’d rather she not.”
Ned gently nudged Rosalind with his elbow. “Let’s quarrel, shall we? Have a rousing set-to right here in the park. That groom pretending not to spy on us will be agog, and tongues will wag.”
“You are teasing me.” A puzzling response to a difference of opinion, but at least he wasn’t lecturing her.
“Rosalind, if we are to be married, I hope you will give me the benefit of your thinking on all matters of importance. We will differ, we will discuss, and sometimes, we will not mince words. Sometimes, I will be wrong and you will have to explain to me the error of my ways. Sometimes, you will be misinformed, and I will point that out to you. I, too, want to be married as quickly as possible, but our families would look askance at that choice. Right now, I am interested in how to win your father’s approval, and a hole-in-corner ceremony isn’t likely to do that.”
“You make sense,” Rosalind said, wishing he did not. “Do you really think we will argue?”
“I think,” Ned said, bending near, “that once given a clear field to wield your considerable reasoning powers, you will delight in arguing with me. Read Mr. Smith. That should keep us exchanging verbal fisticuffs for a good five years. I will also delight in turning you loose on Walden and Lord Stephen, who think themselves the most rational of men.”
The prospect of marrying into such a family, one that welcomed all comers to a debate, that entertained radical notions in a spirit of well-intended inquiry, boggled Rosalind’s mind. No wonder she delighted so in Ned’s company, and no wonder she wanted to make all haste to the altar.
“I adore you, Ned Wentworth. Now you have my lips aching too.”
The path curved up ahead, such that if Rosalind were quick, she might be able to sneak a peck to Ned’s cheek with the rubbishing groom none the wiser.
“I will call upon Lord Woodruff this afternoon,” Ned said, “and then we can indulge in the liberties allowed a courting couple.”
“No more aching lips?”
“Lips aching for all the best reasons,” he countered, drawing Rosalind around the bend in the trail, and a few steps to the left. “Infernal perdition.”
Rosalind followed Ned’s gaze to the next curve in the path. Lindy rode along on his flashy gray, Clotilda Cadwallader up on a chestnut mare beside him.
“Roz, is that you?” Lindy called. “When one rides in the park, one generally involves horses, my dear. Wentworth, good day. I assume you know Miss Cadwallader?”
Rosalind handled the introductions, though the fair Clotilda was already acquainted with Ned. The groom came along with Ned’s and Rosalind’s horses, and Rosalind was compelled by manners to allow Lindy and Miss Cadwallader to escort her home.
Well, infernal perdition, to quote Ned, but at least Rosalind would see her intended that afternoon. She was home and changing out of her habit before she realized that Ned had only indirectly answered her question about the specific nature of his unfortunate past.
***
Ned had barely settled at his desk before His Grace of Walden strode into the office. The duke was immaculately attired, as always, and exuding more than his usual complement of impatience.
“Silas Cadwallader has an appointment immediately after lunch,” Walden said. “You will need to handle that chore, for I have a committee meeting to chair. Cadwallader doubtless wants an increase in his line of credit, before his womenfolk spend him into the poorhouse.”
