Page 13 of The Duke’s Masked Wallflower

“We are for Vauxhall, next Thursday,” James said, breaking into his thoughts. “Mrs. Warwick insists on it. She says the gardens will be romantic for us and a good source of inspiration for the wedding, though I cannot think why, given how many chaperones will be trailing us like a naval escort. You’ll come.”

“Will I now?”

“I hope so. It is expected. The whole purpose of dragging you about London is so that everyone may see the Duke of Hartmere endorsing my choice of bride, and I intend to make full use of you before the novelty wears off.” James grinned, entirely without shame. “Besides, you have been unbearable company all week. The fresh air will do you good.”

Gabriel considered arguing and found, to his own irritation, that he did not particularly want to. Outings were often so useful. For being seen, but also for seeing.

Objectively, Vauxhall on a clear night was not the worst place a gentleman could find himself, especially given the rain of the last few days. But Gabriel felt restless as he walked behind James and Miss Warwick, thinking of his home in Surrey and the other places he would rather have been.

On one side of him was Miss Warwick’s mother, and on the other was her mother’s friend. They had kept him company most of the afternoon, saying how nice it was for him to have condescended to walk with them that day, knowing there were many better things he could be doing.

The paper lamps strung through the trees cast a golden light on the gravel walkways, and somewhere beyond the tall pillar of supper boxes, an orchestra was playing Clementi. The air smelled of burnt sugar and faintly of the faraway River Thames. He could hear the river if he tried hard enough, the boats sailing to harbor under the cover of fast-fading evening light.

At some point, Miss Warwick’s mother turned to him. They had lost James and Tiffany somewhere near the acrobats. It had likely been accidental on their part, Gabriel said, but they should go searching for them immediately.

“I’ll remain here for you,” he said, putting his hands in his trouser pockets. “Hold down the fort so we don’t get split up.”

“How very kind, Your Grace.” The elder woman smiled and, taking her friend by the arm, doubled back to where they had come from.

Gabriel dropped his smile the second they were gone, turning around. He hesitated a moment before continuing without them, torn between his duty to James and his duty to himself.

He had only walked ten minutes from their meeting spot when he saw her.

She was walking with her mother near the colonnade, wearing green this time rather than pink, her auburn hair catching the lamplight in a way that made him think of the crystal bird sitting in his reading room. She had not seen him.

He watched her a moment longer than was necessary before he understood that he had been hoping to see her all evening, though it seemed impossible in hindsight. He had not even known the Winthrops would be there that evening. And yet despite all this, he changed course toward her.

She saw him coming; he watched the moment it happened, her spine straightening and her chin coming up, like a little frocked soldier bracing for battle. And then, astonishingly, she turned and walked in the opposite direction of him, pulling her mother sharply away before she could notice him approaching.

Gabriel stopped in his tracks, genuinely startled, a laugh catching behind his ribs. Nobody walked away from him. Not in London, at least. Not at a ball, not at the clubs, and certainly not in public. He recovered himself and followed, keeping a polite distance, telling himself he only wished for a word and that he was owed one after she had seen him.

But the woman was quicker than he expected. She ducked behind a knot of gentlemen beneath an archway, and then she cut across toward the fireworks lawn. By the time he had extricated himself from the bulk of the crowd that was waiting for the fire show, Miss Rosalie Winthrop had vanished entirely.

“Flighty little thing,” he murmured and went to find her.

It took the better part of fifteen minutes, and an unwelcome conversation with a mother of three unmarried daughters, before he spotted her again, slipping through the doors behind the poor excuse for a bookseller that the Vauxhall folks optimistically called its traveling library—with four shelves of tomes from abroad and a card table—and mostly used by chaperones wanting somewhere quiet to relax a moment.

It was empty when he entered, except for her; everyone else had gone to see the fireworks. It took him a second to wonder where her mother had run off to. Miss Winthrop turned at the sound of the door, standing between two shelves of books. Whatever composure she had gathered for the occasion visibly abandoned her. She held her hands at her waist, her bonnet trapped between them, and sucked in a harsh breath.

“Your Grace,” she cried, almost accusingly.

He closed the door behind him halfway, letting enough light into the room to see her. “You are remarkably fast for a woman in a frock like that.”

She was stunned into silence for a moment, casting a look over her shoulder like she intended to run away. But she remained where she was, her head bare, soft auburn curls sticking to the sweat on her neck. “It is not unusual for people to gain superhuman abilities when they are fighting for their lives—as prey animals do in the wild. All their instincts become heightened. They jump higher, run faster.”

“Prey?” He almost laughed. “You have nothing to fear from me.”

“Your dogged pursuit of me begs otherwise.” She was breathing quickly, color high in her cheeks, and he found he could not entirely regret having caused her distress when it made her look so alive. “Obviously you noticed how I was attempting to avoid you, and thought I’d been successful, until you entered this room.”

“And isn’t that so curious? Most young ladies achieve the opposite effect entirely. It is so often me running from them—with success, aye, until they enter the room.”

“If they had any sense, they would promptly leave it,” she said bitterly. “Unless the door was barred.”

“I would never bar a door.”

He moved farther into the room and waved toward the open doorway. Instead of running for it, she took a step back, bumping into the table behind her. She caught herself with a hand flat against the wood, visibly annoyed at her own clumsiness.

“I did not come to torment you, Miss Winthrop, whatever you may believe of me.”