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“You’ve caught me out, sir. I am, in fact, not a kangaroo.”
“A vast relief, indeed. I presume you’re here for the Christmas ball?”
This time it was her turn to give a derisive snort. Her, attend a ball? Phillippa would sooner see her hanged at the gibbet than attend the Duke of Hawthorne’s ball alongside Cornelia and Beatrice.
But she wasn’t about to explain herself to this man, no matter how handsome he was. The less he knew about her, the better. So, she said only, “Something like that, yes.”
His eyebrows rose. Really, he had the most expressive face.
“I see. Are you well acquainted with the duke?”
“No. I’m not at all acquainted with him.” She wasn’t inclined to think well of him, however. Perhaps that was unfair, but after two years as a servant she was persuaded that noblemen were, for the most part, as petulant and mean-spirited as spoiled children.
And dukes were likely the worst of the lot.
But one didn’t disparage a gentleman while at the same time enjoying his hospitality. Or enduring it, more accurately. Yes, that was closer to the truth.
“You’re not acquainted with the Duke of Hawthorne.” His gaze swept over her, lingering on her lips. “Yet you’ve already decided you don’t like him.”
Her mouth fell open. How had he known that she didn’t—
“The curl of your lip. It was subtle, I’ll give you that, but I’m rather an expert at reading disgust on a lady’s face.”
What in the world did that mean? Better not to ask.
She rushed into speech before another inconvenient truth could emerge from his absurdly perfect lips. “What nonsense. Why should I feel disgust for a gentleman I’ve never met?”
He shrugged, as if it mattered not a whit to him how she felt, but that telltale quirk was still at the corners of his lips. “I haven’t the vaguest idea. Why don’t you tell me, madam?”
For pity’s sake, how had she gotten herself into such a ridiculous conversation? She cast a longing glance at the door, but it was on the other side of the enormous conservatory, and he was standing between her, and it.
There would be no quick escape.
She huffed out a breath. “Very well, if you insist upon knowing, I find this house party and Christmas Eve ball to be in bad taste.”
The eyebrow jumped, threatening to leap off his face entirely. “Oh? How so?”
“Do you not think it’s in bad taste for a gentleman to summon dozens of young, aristocratic ladies to his remote country estate so he may choose a bride from amongst them, much as he would a prime bit of horseflesh?”
His head jerked back. “I never thought of it that way.”
“No, I expect not.” Gentlemen rarely saw anything as it truly was. “But I’ve wasted too much of your time already, mister … er, mister …”
Silence, once again. A beat passed, then another, and then, “Ambrose,” he said at last, offering her a shallow bow. “Christopher Ambrose. I’m the Duke of Hawthorne’s gardener.”
CHAPTER 4
The lie slid from Gabriel’s lips as if his tongue were coated in ice.
He hadn’t meant to say it. Even now he could hardly believe he’d spoken the words aloud, but the lie was there, still echoing between them.
Christopher Ambrose, the Duke of Hawthorne’s gardener. His gardener!
What in the world was he thinking, telling this young lady such an egregious falsehood?
The answer was plain enough. He wasn’t thinking at all. He’d been lost in a pair of eyes of such a deep, startling blue, one glance at them was like diving into the ocean.
Except this wasn’t the ocean. This was his conservatory, and the young lady—the same young lady he’d seen from his bedchamber window only an hour earlier—was shifting uneasily from one foot to the other and worrying her lower lip.
