Page 25 of The Duke's Rules Of Engagement
“You’ve been building and racing boats for many years, then.”
“Over twenty.”
“What do you enjoy about it?”
He thought about it for a moment. “Well, it’s complicated. You’re out there, nothing between you and the murky depths but a plank of wood, and you’re going as fast as humanly possible, every single muscle in your body straining toward the goal. You know that one wrong movement will destroy your momentum, but you don’t destroy it—you’re in harmony with the water and with your boat, and if you’re rowing as a team, your crew. You’re working in perfect unison. You’re a machine.” He sighed wistfully. “And then, when it’s over, every muscle in your body strained to its limit, you are exhilarated. You’ve done your best work, and you’ve gone as fast and as far as you possibly could ever go.”
Jo didn’t know much about rowing, but she’d never imagined it was such hard physical labor. It made sense considering the tight fit of his coat across his broad shoulders, his slender waist, his flat stomach, how his thighs bulged beneath the fabric of his trousers.
“It sounds wonderful. I should like to try it sometime.” He laughed, and her spine straightened. “Do you think I am jesting?”
He shook his head. “Women don’t row.”
“Why not?”
“Because it can be cold, wet, exhausting work. Women despise being cold, wet, and exhausted.”
“Take me to your boathouse, and you will learn otherwise.”
Oh, good Lord. What had she said? She’d brashly invited herself to his boathouse. What waswrongwith her? Did she have a fever?
She brushed the back of her hand over her forehead. Cool as a spring breeze.
“I have half a mind to do just that,” he said quietly, a smile still playing around the edges of his lips. “I daresay you would set foot on the premises, then spin on your heel and leave straightaway.”
“Why is that?”
“It smells like the Thames…multiplied by…around ten, I’d say.”
She grimaced. “Really? That does sound rather intolerable.”
“There’s some level of grime, I’ve found, associated with anything to do with large bodies of water, and the Thames ranks as one of the worst, in my experience.”
“The Thames,” she said, “highly ranked in rankness.”
“The rankings rank itquitehighly in rankness.”
She laughed. She wanted to tell him that she’d still like to go. She’d still like to sit in one of his boats and draw an oar through the river water, rank though it may be, and experience the boat beneath her slip through the water. But Jo had been forward enough for one day, and she held her tongue.
“Well,” she finally said, “your pursuit is quite an original one. I’ve never had a client who fancied himself a rower before.”
“I’d wager you’ll have more in your future. The club we started at Eton sparked off a schoolwide one that has five times the members now as it did when I was there. And Oxford has started racing eights on the Isis in the summertime.”
“Eights?”
“Eights are boats with eight rowers and a coxswain.”
“Well,” she said, impressed at the image of a boat full of nine men speeding down a river, “I should like to see that sometime.”
“Maybe—” He cut himself off abruptly, then shrugged. There was another awkward silence, then he said, “Are there any more questions?”
Right. Questions. She searched around her mind and remembered one…one that might lead to the true question she wanted to ask him—what happened with Fanny Fleming?—but couldn’t bring herself to blurt out. She had to go about it in a more roundabout way.
“I asked you before about your favorite people in your life. Now, I’d like to ask about your least favorite people.”
His dark brows arched. “Would you, now?”
“I would.”
