Duke of Midnight (Maiden Lane #6)(38)

All. That. White. Flesh.

For a second his mind seemed to stutter.

When he looked up again, she and the dogs were nearly into the woods again, her bottom swaying enticingly. He actually had to trot to catch up.

He glanced sideways at her when he did and saw her lips pressed firmly together.

“You know how to swim?”

For a moment he thought she wouldn’t deign to answer. Then she sighed. “Yes. Apollo and I were allowed to run mostly wild as children. There was a little pond on a neighboring farmer’s land. We’d sneak over there and after some trial and error, we both learned to swim.”

Maximus frowned. Craven’s report had been very factual—the date of her birth, who her parents were, her relation to Lady Penelope—but he found there was more he’d like to know about Miss Greaves. It was always prudent to learn all one could about one’s enemies.

“You didn’t have a governess?”

She laughed softly, though it sounded sad. “We had three. They’d stay for months or even a year or so, and then Papa would run out of money and have to let them go. Somehow Apollo and I learned to read and write and do simple sums, but not much more than that. I have no French, can’t play any instrument, never learned to draw.”

“Your educational lack doesn’t seem to bother you,” he observed.

She shrugged. “Would it make a difference if I were bothered? I have some other skills not usually seen in ladies: swimming, as I told you, and how to shoot a gun. I can bargain down a butcher to within an inch of his life. I know how to make soap and how to put a bill collector off. I can do mending but not embroidery, can drive a cart but not ride a horse, know how to grow cabbages and carrots and even make them into a nice soup, but I haven’t the least idea how to trellis roses.”

Maximus’s hands tightened into fists at his side at this recitation. No gentleman should let his delicately bred daughter grow to womanhood without the most basic instruction of her station.

“Yet you’re the granddaughter of the Earl of Ashridge.”

“Yes.” Her voice was terse and he knew he’d stumbled on some tender spot.

“You never mention it aloud. Is your relationship a secret?”

“It’s not.” She wrinkled her nose and amended her statement. “At least on my part it isn’t. My grandfather has never acknowledged me. Papa had a falling out with his father when he married Mama, and apparently stubbornness runs in the family.”

Maximus grunted. “You said your grandfather never acknowledged you. Did he acknowledge your brother?”

“In his way.” She strode along, the greyhounds at her side. It struck him that had she a bow at her back and a quiver of arrows, she could’ve posed for a painting of the goddess she’d been named for. “As Apollo was his future heir, apparently Grandfather thought it important he be properly educated. He paid for Apollo’s schooling at Harrow. Apollo says he’s even met Grandfather once or twice.”

He sucked in a breath. “Your grandfather has never even met you?”

She shook her head. “Not to my knowledge.”

He frowned. The idea of abandoning family was anathema to him. He couldn’t conceive of doing it for any reason.

He looked at her closely, a thought striking him. “Did you try contacting him when…?”

“When my mother was dying and Apollo had been arrested and we were quite desperate?” She snorted. “Of course I did. He never replied to the letters I sent. If Mama hadn’t written to her cousin, the Earl of Brightmore, I don’t know what I would’ve done. We were penniless, Papa had been dead less than a year, Mama was on her deathbed, and Thomas called off our engagement. I would’ve been on the street.”

He stopped short. “You were engaged.”

She took two more strides before she realized that he was no longer beside her. She looked over her shoulder at him, that not-smile on the bow of her lips. “I’ve found a fact you didn’t know about me?”

He nodded mutely. Why? Why hadn’t he considered this? Four years ago she would’ve been four and twenty. Of course she’d had suitors.

“Well, I shouldn’t feel too bad,” she replied. “We hadn’t announced it yet, which was a good thing: it made it so much easier for him to call it off discreetly without seeming like a cad.”

Maximus glanced away so she couldn’t examine too closely the expression on his face. “Who was he?”

“Thomas Stone. The son of the town’s doctor.”

He sneered. “Beneath you.”

Her gaze hardened. “As you so kindly pointed out, my father was notorious for his flights of fancy. Too, I had no dowry to speak of. I couldn’t very well be choosy. Besides”—her tone softened—“Thomas was quite sweet. He used to bring me daisies and violets.”

He stared, incredulous. What sort of imbecile brought such common flowers to a goddess? Were it him, he’d shower her with hothouse lilies, peonies overflowing with perfumed bloom, roses in every shade.

Bah, violets.

He shook his head irritably. “But he stopped bringing those flowers, didn’t he?”

“Yes.” Her lips twisted. “As soon as the news of Apollo’s arrest got out, in fact.”

He stepped closer, watching her face for any minute signs, wanting to see what would break her. Had she fancied herself in love with the doctor’s son? “I detect a trace of bitterness.”