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And what a lip it was! Plump, pink, and as smooth as silk—

“I shouldn’t have said that.” She glanced at him, and then away again. “I beg your pardon. It was wrong of me to speak so ungraciously about the duke, particularly when I’ve never even seen His Grace.”

“I wouldn’t let that worry you. The duke appreciates honesty.” Good God, the irony was so thick he could taste rust in his mouth. “He might even agree with you. When you’re introduced to him at the dinner tonight—”

He broke off, panic swelling in his throat. How in the world was he going to explain himself when he encountered her at the dinner tonight? He’d been away from England for some time, but unless things had changed a great deal, the gardening staff did not dine at the duke’s table.

Damn it, this was what came of telling lies. The moment he took his seat at the head of the table his identity would be revealed, and she would think he was an utter madman. What sort of duke pretended to be a gardener?

“Oh, I won’t be attending the dinner tonight, Mr. Ambrose.”

“Of course you’ll attend. All the young ladies will attend the welcome dinner this evening.”

“Ah, but as I already told you, I’m not a young lady.”

She held up the skirt of her cloak, as if that explained everything, but what did her cloak have to do with dinner? Unless … ah, that was it. She was pointing out how shabby it was, how threadbare. She meant for him to see it was not the garment of a genteel young lady.

“I’m Lady Featherstone’s servant, Mr. Ambrose,” she added, removing all doubt. “Her lady’s maid.”

“I see. I beg your pardon.” Still, servant or not, this made no sense. Her cloak was a breath away from falling to bits. Lady Featherstone should be ashamed of herself for permitting her servant to go about dressed in such rags.

“Lady Featherstone will not be pleased if I’m seated at the duke’s dinner table this evening alongside her daughters.” She smiled, but there was a hint of bitterness in it. “It’s just as well, as I have no wish to attend. I haven’t much use for dinner parties.”

Or dukes, by the sound of it.

“I’m not fond of them myself.” Balls, routs, musical evenings, dinners—he invariably made a cake of himself at such grand events. Just a week before he’d returned to England from Brazil he’d attended a formal dinner at the Viceroy’s estate. He’d been seated next to the Vicereine, which was a mark of great honor, and he’d proceeded to spill wine all over her gown.

Red wine, and the gown was a pale yellow silk. The poor lady looked like she’d been stabbed.

“Then I suppose we should both be grateful that we’re not welcome at the duke’s dinner table. There must be a great many other pleasant things to do on such an estate as this.” Her gaze wandered to the row of arched windows behind him. “I daresay the grounds are lovely.”

“They are, especially the formal gardens. We’re famous for our …” He trailed off, an idea chasing every other thought from his head.

A foolish, ill-advised and perfectly delightful idea.

There were a great many pleasant things to do at Hawthorne Castle. What if, instead of the endless stilted dinners and dull musical evenings, he spent the duration of the house party squiring Lady Featherstone’s lady’s maid around his estate?

No, no. It was impossible. A dangerous thought, indeed.

Dangerous, and oh, so very tempting.

But it was out of the question, of course. He’d never be able to manage it. As Rowan had reminded him earlier today, the young ladies crowding his drive had come here to meet the Duke of Hawthorne.

But what if he wasn’t the Duke of Hawthorne? What if he was simply Mr. Ambrose, the Duke of Hawthorne’s humble gardener?

Pure madness, that. Insanity. Who would entertain the young ladies and their mammas if there was no Duke of Hawthorne?

If only there were two of him …

“Mr. Ambrose? You were about to tell me what Hawthorne Castle is famous for.”

“I beg your pardon, Miss …” Good God, what was the matter with him? She’d utterly charmed him, and he couldn’t even recall her name!

“Miss Harley.”

“Hawthorn, Miss Harley. Hawthorne Castle is famous for hawthorn.”

“Indeed? How shocking.” Her lips were twitching. “Whoever would have guessed?”