Page 22 of The Duke's Rules Of Engagement
The day after the soiree, Jo had gone to visit Beatrice in the guise of thanking her friend for the lovely evening and sharing a bit of gossip about the attendees—excluding the Duke of Crestmont, of course—but really to ascertain that Beatrice and Harold were still happily married.
They were, thank goodness. And Beatrice had confided that she thought she was with child, though she hadn’t told Harold yet, because she wanted to be certain first. Then, she’d loaned Jo her copy of the latest novel by the anonymous author ofWaverley, and they scheduled a time next month to discuss it.
Beatrice and Harold were still happy. It was such a relief. It eased Jo’s worries about her other clients, and about any part of her awful dream coming true.
It didn’t help with the Charles-and-Lilly problem, though.
What could she do for them? How could she unbreak Lilly’s heart?
Even with all her worry about Lilly, thoughts of the Duke of Crestmont had constantly insinuated themselves into her mind for the past two days. She kept thinking of him, and not in the “who will make the perfect bride for him?” kind of way like she should be. She thought more of the way he looked at her, how he stood so tall and proud. How stiff and uncomfortable he seemed to be in his own skin. And why on earth he’d left Fanny Fleming at the altar.
When he’d first come into her office and brought that ridiculous list with answers to “all the questions” she might ask, she’d nearly laughed in his face. He truly believed that knowing he would prefer not to have a woman who was older than him, bald, or taller than him—few women in London would stand taller than him, given that he must be an inch or so over six feet—truly helped her in determining his perfect match. But she’d managed to contain herself. Well, she’d contained herself until that broodmare nonsense came up. And then the nonsense about pedigrees.
Now, she sensed, from his tight lips and narrow eyes, that he was becoming as irritated with her as she was with him. Above all, she didn’t want him to leave. As pompous and annoying as he was, he was a challenge.
To be sure, Jo had been known to walk away from challenges—when she deemed them a waste of time or concluded that the risk was not worth the reward. But she was determined not to walk away from this one because the reward would be worth her time, and her risk. Her future depended on making him a match.
So did his, for that matter.
Needing to change the tone of the conversation, she rose from her chair and looked outside, where the sky had turned blue, the clouds white and puffy, the sun reflecting over the wet cobbles and walls of the buildings across the mews.
How had he known?
He rose and came to stand beside her. “I am proficient at predicting the weather.”
“Are you?” What an odd skill.
“I am.”
“How do you do it?”
“I use various scientific instruments, compare current conditions with my past data, and analyze the sky.”
“My mother studies the sky sometimes, too. She says if the color of the sky darkens from pale blue to a deep blue, then the rain will stop.”
He smiled. Was that a first? Had she actually made him smile? With such a simple and short anecdote about herself and her family?
“The color of the patches of blue in the sky can influence my predictions, as well.”
“My mother believes there’s something to it.”
“She is correct. There are also wind patterns, seasons, temperature, hygrometer and barometer readings—”
“Do you keep track of all those things?”
“I do. I keep detailed charts.”
“That’s fascinating.” Heat rose to her cheeks. “I mean…I suppose most people don’t find weather interesting. It’s always considered to be the most common topic to start a mundane conversation, but I actually love the weather. I love all four seasons. I love storms and rain and snow and lovely, perfect days. I love when the weather changes with each season.”
His smile grew natural, relaxed, and she felt the tension begin to drain from his body. “So do I.”
“I would very much like to see your charts sometime.”
“I will bring the most recent ones next time I see you.” His smile faltered. “Er, assuming there is to be a next time.”
“Usually, I see my clients about once a week so we can go over the potential matches they’ve met. So there will be,” she assured him.
Her eyes dropped to her arm, where the sleeve of his waistcoat brushed against it. He seemed to notice at the exact same time and jerked away. Then he took a big step back.
