The duke gasped in faux outrage. “Youdoubtedmy strawberry-selection capabilities? After all we’ve been through together on this interminable market escapade, you possess the unthinkable affrontery to—”
She dragged him to the cherry cart.
Their silly, delicious berry war was more fun than she’d ever imagined having with the Duke of Lambley. He took his masquerades so seriously, she hadn’t been certain the man was even capable offun. But here they were, teasing each other and feeding each other and arguing passionately over meaningless details that neither of them cared about, because they were no longer in this market to buy food. They were still here because they were enjoying each other.
Only when not a single berry more would fit into her overflowing basket did they declare themselves defeated, and made their way out of the market to the queue of carriages lined along the street.
“Which one is yours?” he asked.
A real courtesan of the rank Unity was pretending to belong to would have a coach-and-four at her disposal.
“I walked,” she admitted, and hoped he merely thought her eccentric. “I’ll summon a hackney—”
“Nonsense. My coach is right here.”
She’d noticed it at once, of course. It was impossible not to. The distinctive coat of arms painted upon the door, the matched pair of tall, regal… uh… Unity didn’t know enough about horses to begin to guess their breed, but even to her ignorant eye, these two were the finest pair in the queue.
A blue-and-gold liveried footman opened the door for them, but it was Lambley who handed her up and into the luxurious interior.
Unity had never been inside a conveyance half so fine, but when her temporary arrangement with Lambley ended, it would not be his plush carriage or his gilded ballroom that she missed the most.
It would be the hour she’d spent with him today at the market.
“To where shall I instruct the coachman?” he asked.
Unity hesitated. She could not give the direction of her tiny room in a shared apartment and have him believe anyone of his class would visit such mean lodgings. Not only did she need to keep the charade intact, a vexing part of her also could not bear for him to think less of her because of her address and significantly lower station than High Class Courtesan.
She gave him her cousin’s address instead.
At this time in the afternoon, Roger would be at his club already. She hadn’t lived in his home since the day he’d thrown her out, but the servants still remembered her. They would allow her in the front door, and then she could walk through to the back and continue home down the alleys. She’d give the staff a few quarts of fruit to share amongst themselves for their trouble.
The walk home would be longer, but the small deception would be worth it. She didn’t want to jeopardize her chance at future moments like these with Lambley.
Not when he was looking at her as though he had found the perfect berry, ripe for the tasting.
They were no longer speaking. The easy banter of the marketplace had been replaced by a tension thick as custard and just as tempting. Lambley’s leonine eyes watched her as though he were keeping himself tethered on his side of the carriage out of sheer force of will.
She wished he wouldn’t.
The kiss they had shared had been heavenly. It had also been public. The knowledge so many eyes were upon her had distracted her from being fully able to enjoy the moment.
No eyes were upon them now. If he wanted to kiss her again, he could.
But he did not.
Perhaps she was not as winsome without an audience. His only playtime was Saturday nights from ten to six, with the rest of the week devoted to the serious business of wife-hunting. No—duchesshunting.
Unity would not be cast in the role. She was the wrong class, wrong color, wrong everything.
But she didn’t want to be anyone’s wife. Unity had her own plans. What she wanted at the moment was to be a woman the duke had welcomed into his embrace because he wished to. Because he chose to.
She needed to know if the kiss they’d shared had been real, or a trifling bit of showmanship undertaken to please his audience.
“Thank you for the fruit,” she murmured.
He scoffed. “I don’t care about the fruit.”
“I have never seen someone care more deeply about fruit than the Duke of Lambley in front of a gooseberry cart.”
