The Way to a Duke's Heart: The Truth About the Duke by Caroline Linden

Women always liked him. He finally threw craftiness to the wind. “I can’t help but think she’s taken me in dislike,” he said, watching her wend her way through the crowd. Her dark blue skirts swung briskly as she walked, and her straw bonnet never turned even the littlest bit to the side. If they were in London, he would have said she just gave him the cut. “Have I offended her in some way? I certainly did not intend to.”
    “Why, no,” cried Mrs. Bates. “You’ve been the most proper gentleman, my lord! No, no, she merely . . .”
    “Yes?” He tore his gaze from the departing figure when Mrs. Bates hesitated too long.
    “She isn’t . . . quite . . . at ease in . . . society,” his companion finally said, struggling with each word. “She is too . . . forward.”
    That, he could see. Mrs. Neville would be wise to practice some reserve in London, if she wished to have any standing. Especially if she planned to take many earls or similar personages into such extreme and obvious dislike. “Have my actions contributed to her unease?” he persisted. “You know her much better than I, Mrs. Bates. I should hate to have unsettled her, even without intending to.”
    “Oh, I’m sure I can’t think of anything you’ve done that might have offended her!” But the older lady’s cheeks were bright pink and she wouldn’t look at him.
    So there was something. “You’re being too kind, madam,” he said in gentle reproach. “I would rather hear of my failing than continue in ignorance, alienating Mrs. Neville forever.”
    Mrs. Bates bit her lip and tipped her head from side to side, her face a mask of guilt and indecision. “I should not tell you this, my lord, but really—Mrs. Neville is best pleased when gentlemen treat her as they would another gentleman. She does not like flattery, or any suggestion she needs protecting. She is so enormously clever, but because she is also so lovely, gentlemen sometimes mistake her for a typical female. I’m sure I cannot understand her interest in investments and canal shares, but then I haven’t nearly the head for figures she’s got. Lord Marchmont quite depends upon her; why, I expect she knows more about running Rushwood than he does! Not that she lacks a woman’s heart,” she added quickly, as if fearing she had tarred her friend too badly. “But . . . finding a husband is far from paramount in her mind. She said she was done with that after—”
    Charlie guessed from her vivid blush and sudden silence that Mrs. Bates regretted saying that last part, which only inflamed his curiosity. He wondered exactly what sort of blow Mrs. Neville had sustained to make her content to be a widow. Heartbreak? Scandal? Something worse? It really was a pity for such a beautiful woman to be alone . . .
    With a start he realized he was unconsciously wondering what it would take to tempt her. No. He was not here to seduce Mrs. Neville—who might, he reminded himself sternly, be part of the plot to ruin him. No doubt her sharp tongue had warded off any man tempted to approach her, and any heartbreak she suffered had been as much her own doing as any man’s. If she thought him—Earl of Gresham, heir to the ancient and wealthy dukedom of Durham—indolent and unworthy, she obviously had different standards of worth than every other woman in Britain. Even if she had a luscious mouth and a lovely figure, he was not interested—intrigued and challenged, yes, but not foolhardy enough to pursue her.
    Still, there was no reason not to use what he had learned. “I quite understand,” he murmured. “I shall bear your words in mind when next I meet Mrs. Neville, and treat her as I would any gentleman of my acquaintance.” He wasn’t sure how on earth he would do it—his aunt’s scolding would ring in his ears if he behaved too informally with any respectable lady—but it was an interesting thought.
    Mrs. Bates beamed at him gratefully. “You are so good, my lord!