The Lost Duke of Wyndham (Two Dukes of Wyndham, #1)(59)

He placed one hand on his chest, the dramatic gesture somehow restoring his equilibrium. It was easier to play the jester. No one expected as much from fools. "I am wounded," he proclaimed. "I promise you, I was not going to say that my favorite subject was seduction, or the art of a kiss, or the proper way to remove a lady's glove, or for that matter the proper way to remove - "

"Stop!"

"I was going to say," he said, trying to sound beleaguered and henpecked, "that my favorite subject of late is you."

Their eyes met, but only for a moment. Something unnerved her, and she quickly shifted her gaze to her lap. He watched her, mesmerized by the play of emotions on her face, by the way her hands, which were clasped together atop the table, tensed and moved.

"I don't like this painting," she said quite suddenly.

He had to look back at the book to see which image she referred to. It was a man and a woman out of doors, sitting on the grass. The woman's back was to the canvas, and she seemed to be pushing the man away. Jack was not familiar with it, but he thought he recognized the style. "The Boucher?"

"Ye -  no," she said, blinking in confusion as she leaned forward. She looked down. "Jean-Antoine Watteau," she read. "The Faux Pas."

He looked down more closely. "Sorry," he said, his voice light. "I'd only just turned the page. I think it does look rather like a Boucher, though. Don't you?"

She gave a tiny shrug. "I'm not familiar enough with either artist to say. I did not study painting - or painters - very much as a child. My parents weren't overly interested in art."

"How is that possible?"

She smiled at that, the sort of smile that was almost a laugh. "It wasn't so much that they weren't interested, just that they were interested in other things more. I think that above all they would have loved to travel. Both of them adored maps and atlases of all sorts."

Jack felt his eyes roll up at that. "I hate maps."

"Really?" She sounded stunned, and maybe just a little bit delighted by his admission. "Why?"

He told her the truth. "I haven't the talent for reading them."

"And you, a highwayman."

"What has that to do with it?"

"Don't you need to know where you're going?"

"Not nearly so much as I need to know where I've been." She looked perplexed at that, so he added,

"There are certain areas of the country - possibly all of Kent, to be honest - it is best that I avoid."

"This is one of those moments," she said, blinking several times in rapid succession, "when I am not quite certain if you are being serious."

"Oh, very much so," he told her, almost cheerfully. "Except perhaps for the bit about Kent."

She looked at him in incomprehension.

"I might have been understating."

"Understating," she echoed.

"There's a reason I avoid the South."

"Good heavens."

It was such a ladylike utterance. He almost laughed.

"I don't think I have ever known a man who would admit to being a poor reader of maps," she said once she regained her composure.

He let his gaze grow warm, then hot. "I told you I was special."

"Oh, stop." She wasn't looking at him, not directly, at least, and so she did not see his change of expression. Which probably explained why her tone remained so bright and brisk as she said, "I must say, it does complicate matters. The dowager asked me to find you so that you could aid with our routing once we disembark in Dublin."

He waved a hand. "That I can do."

"Without a map?"

"We went frequently during my school days."

She looked up and smiled, almost nostalgically, as if she could see into his memories. "I'd wager you were not the head boy."

He lifted a brow. "Do you know, I think most people would consider that an insult."

Her lips curved and her eyes glowed with mischief. "Oh, but not you."

She was right, of course, not that he was going to let her know it. "And why would you think that?"

"You would never want to be head boy."

"Too much responsibility?" he murmured, wondering if that was what she thought of him.

She opened her mouth, and he realized that she'd been about to say yes. Her cheeks turned a bit pink, and she looked away for a moment before answering. "You are too much of a rebel," she answered. "You would not wish to be aligned with the administration."

"Oh, the administration," he could not help but echo with amusement.

"Don't make fun of my choice of words."

"Well," he declared, arching one brow. "I do hope you realize you are saying this to a former officer in His Majesty's army."

This she dismissed immediately. "I should have said that you enjoy styling yourself as a rebel. I rather suspect that at heart you're just as conventional as the rest of us."

He paused, and then: "I hope you realize you are saying this to a former highwayman on His Majesty's roads."

How he said this with a straight face, he'd never know, and indeed it was a relief when Grace, after a moment of shock, burst out laughing. Because really, he didn't think he could have held that arch, offended expression for one moment longer.