“That’s not even one bit true. There’s always something happening—a calf being birthed, a field to plow, seeds to sow, or a fence to repair.”
“My point precisely. Nothing. No opera house, no museums, no Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens, no London Tavern where the intellectuals and radicals debate weighty matters. Only turnip fields and sheep as far as the eye can see.”
“You sound like my brother,” he muttered.
“Lord Rafe?”
“That’s the one. Are you acquainted with him, MissPenny?”
A smile played at the corners of her lips. “I met him on several occasions when he visited my uncle’s estate.”
“He shares your distaste for sheep. And what do you have against turnips?”
For that matter, what did she have against dukes?
She certainly wasn’t hoping to become a duchess. It was almost as if she’d planned what to say to make herself least appealing to him. For some perverse reason that made her more intriguing.
“I sneeze when I walk across country fields. I break out in red welts all over my face. It’s dreadfully unattractive.”
Drew paused for a second and she tugged on his shoulder to keep him in step with the music.
“Of course I know the rotation of crops is one of your passions,” she continued blithely. “I’ve read your treatises on the subject and they are so utterly scintillating and fascinating.” Her tone spoke the opposite, her laughter tinkled, brittle as spun glass.
“Do you know, MissPenny, my mother told me that you had a charming, rustic air.”
“I do not,” she said indignantly. “I’m worldly and sophisticated. There’s no air of the country about me. I’m no obscure, provincial female with piffling concerns or countrified manners.”
“And yet your complexion has a healthful glow.”
“From staring at London sunsets. Coal smoke creates such pretty shades of violet, don’t you agree, Your Grace? Although you wouldn’t know, since you spend all your time in Cornwall.”
Ah, here it came at last. Perhaps now she would finally say that she’d always wanted to visit the southland in all its craggy glory, or some such nonsense.
“I suppose you’ve always wanted to visit Cornwall?” he prompted.
She wrinkled her pert nose as if he’d suggested she might want to visit the privy at a sporting tavern.
“Certainly not. I hear there are more sheep than people. Not a circumstance to recommend a place, to my way of thinking.”
Perhaps she was only being contrary to differentiate herself from the other ladies. A tactic which was working beautifully. He’d forgotten all about the gossips, how stifling the air in the ballroom was, and how he couldn’t breathe deeply with such a crush of people around him.
Her rudeness was somehow refreshing. He was beginning to enjoy MissPenny. He liked stroking the ridge of her spine. Delicate, yet sturdy.
He liked that she was challenging him. That she was brave enough to insult him.
Some would say foolhardy enough.
She’d dared to antagonize a dangerous, half-mad duke. He wanted to know why. And he wanted to throw her off balance. Fluster the bold, brave MissPenny.
Show her just how bad and mad he was.
“MissPenny, you put me in mind of a Cornish bog. You’re pretty to look upon, but one false step and a man could be sucked to a muddy death.”
She appeared to be genuinely delighted by this. She grinned. “I’m so glad you think so, Your Grace.”
“Yes, MissPenny, you put me in mind of bogs...” he stared into her eyes and lowered his voice to a husky whisper “...and beds.”
Her smile wobbled. “Did you saybeds, Your Grace?”