The Duke Diaries by Sophia Nash Page A

that I, alone, am cultivating the next generation of great minds in England.”
    Not even the smallest muscle of his handsome mouth moved, but she just knew he was laughing at her.
    “I see,” he finally replied. “Well, then perhaps you will not have time for the next generation of paint on the fences of the south field.”
    “Precisely,” she said, quite proud that not a hint of smugness discolored the word.
    “Perhaps, then, you should choose the alternative, less time-consuming penance.”
    “Obviously. I shall do the signs for your amusement, and I shall write a very formal note of apology to you to promise not to trespass in future, and I shall even condescend to dance with you at the infernal Talmadges’ as you demand. This is, by the by, far more than you have done for a far greater offense.” Her nose rose in the air without conscious effort.
    “Perhaps. But I have proper manners, and do not suggest my own penance when transgressions occur. Now then, Lady V, you are in the unenviable position of having to decide if you should prefer to paint, dance, and whitewash—according to you— millions of miles of fence, or . . .”
    She closed her eyes, and knew what he would utter.
    “. . . marriage. To me. So I can clean one small corner of my nearly inexistent conscience.”
    “You’re being ridiculous. I’ve already told you that I will not—”
    “I thought you said you were late,” he corrected with exasperating good humor. “I cannot bear the thought of taking any time away from the cultivation of the next generation of great minds in England.”
    She did not know when she had been more exasperated.
    “So we’re agreed,” he continued. “Do let me know your choice at the Talmadge affair tomorrow evening. I should offer to help you remount, but I find myself rather put out in the face of your intractability.”
    Speechless, she watched him remount his own magnificent animal. She finally found words just as he wheeled about and nodded to her with great condescension.
    “I’m so glad you noticed, Your Grace. You are forewarned it’s a troublesome trait our children would very likely inherit.”
    He blinked.
    She turned her back to him as she crossed to her horse in an effort to hide the prick of anger that was most certainly mottling her face. “Oh, you needn’t look so worried, Rory. You know very well we will never have children together, as I will never accept you.” She quickly remounted her mare. “Not even if you ever truly wanted me, begged me even. You’re not the marrying kind, Rory Lennox . . .” She paused and concluded with emphasis, “And neither am I.”
    She had thought that would render him speechless, but it did not. Just as she turned into the wind, quite brisk now, she heard his words float back to her.
    “I do hope you honor your debts, V. Visible pasture fencing or connubial fencing in. It matters not to me. Although, one might be hazardous to your well-being if the past is any indication.”
    S urreptitiously, he turned his horse about when he was certain she was well on her way to the village. He had hated to say the last, but it was the fair thing to do. She would marry him in the end. Neither had any choice in the matter. There was that sliver of honor that he could not extinguish no matter how hard he tried to smother it. And he had tried. But while they must marry, he would brook no false hope of some fairy tale ending. Love was nothing more than a wisp of a notion soon lost to truth, familiarity, or worse.
    V erity felt as rumpled, and her nerves as frayed, as all the governesses had complained whilst attempting to govern her in her youth, which she, of course, had never believed. The truth was always painful, she mused as she gazed at the twenty odd heads bent over the books her forward-thinking, generous brother had provided. There were not many who subscribed to the notion of educating the underclasses.
    Oh, it had been a joy to take aside the three