Page 9 of The Hero

His brows rose. “What do you mean?”

Harry wasn’t sure. There was just something about this man, glimpses of him she had seen during their conversation before dinner and now, that hinted at him not being entirely that pompous and arrogant ass her father had said he was.

The fact Oxford was amused by her, as evidenced by his laughter earlier, rather than decrying her lack of manners and avoiding her company, was also interesting.

So no, she did not believe Gideon Harrington, the Duke of Oxford, to be quite as toplofty and contemptuous of others as he wished people to believe he was.

“Where were you going?” he repeated.

She smiled. “To check that my father has not become so engrossed in his stargazing that he has fallen over a parapet.”

“I shall come with you,” Oxford instantly offered.

Harry doubted that was a good idea, considering the opinion her father had expressed earlier regarding the other man.

An opinion Harry only partly agreed with.

Oxford could be pompous, yes, but his arrogance appeared to be inborn rather than deliberately affected. Nor did it prevent him from being considerate of the feelings of others, as demonstrated by his considerable patience with the twittering of Mrs. Pierce, the squire’s wife, during dinner.

No, so far in their acquaintance, she continued to disagree with her father’s assessment of the Duke of Oxford’s character.

Even so, she suspected, as her father had foregone one of the sumptuous dinners always provided by her aunt’s cook in order to avoid this man’s company, that he might choose to throw himself from the parapet in order to continue avoiding a man who reminded him of the four months of turmoil and death that had followed Napoleon’s escape. Especially the final battle, which had resulted in her father being shipped home with a head injury that had left a deep scar upon his left temple.

The escape of the Corsican meant her brother and several of his friends, not previously having served, had immediately joined one of the Regent’s regiments. With the ignorance of youth, they had considered the whole thing to be a grand adventure they might tell their grandchildren one day.

Harry’s father, more of a scholar and a romantic than a fighter, had nevertheless decided he must also join a regiment.

Harry had tried to dissuade him from doing so, knowing that his gentle nature was more suited to bird-watching and stargazing.

She has been proved correct when her father had returned home, injured from that blow on the head during the final battle, with whatever horrors he had seen locked tightly inside a mind that refused to relinquish them.

“Best not,” she answered Oxford.

“Because your father disapproves of me?”

“He did not name you specifically…”

“Was anyone else seated at the table this evening in the same regiment as your father?”

“No.” Harry saw no point in avoiding telling the truth.

Oxford stared at her for several seconds before smiling. “Perhaps before you go to check on your father, we might take a stroll about the garden together?” He offered her his arm. “I saw from the window of my bedchamber earlier that several lamps have been lit along the pathways, presumably so that guests might enjoy a walk outside in the balmy evening air.”

Harry raised her brows. “If we go outside together, the gossips will have us betrothed before morning.”

“Then they will be disappointed,” he rasped.

“I think I might like you, after all, Your Grace.” Harry chuckled as she placed her gloved hand on his forearm. The two of them escaped into the garden through a side door rather than returning to the dining room to leave through the open French doors.

She immediately became aware of the stillness of the late summer evening and the heady perfume of the flowers.

Oxford’s mouth quirked at her statement. “You only think that you might like me?” he drawled. “And after I have been so charming and obliging to you too!”

She spluttered with laughter. “Goodness, if this is you being charming and obliging, then I hate to think how cold and difficult you must normally be.”

Gideon knew he had a reputation in Society for being cold and haughty as one of the Ruthless Dukes and in his own right as well. But he found he did not care for having Harry think of him in such an unattractive light.

“I should like you to call me Gideon when we are alone,” he invited huskily as he escorted her down the steps into the garden.

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