“Don’t worry,” he assured her. “Whichever wines you like best, you can have more of.”
“I wasn’t worried,” she managed.
Lambley was many things, but stingy was not one of them.
In short order, he was seated beside her, explaining what kind of soil was best for each grape, and warning her that the skins were thicker, and the interiors riddled with seeds, but the flesh would be sweeter than the sort of grapes she was used to.
She placed one in her mouth carefully and bit down. The grape exploded with sweetness, tempered by the bitterness of its crunchy seeds and its oddly chewy skin.
“What do you think?” he asked.
She wrinkled her nose. “I don’t know yet.”
He laughed. “They’re not meant to be eaten, really. They’re meant to be drunk. See if you like this better.”
Lambley handed her a goblet.
She swirled the wine and tried to admire its movement knowingly, as though she had any idea what anyone divined from the liquid streaks forming on their glasses.
“I have no idea what I’m looking at,” she said at last.
While he explained, she ate a few nuts and a piece of cheese, then clinked her glass with his and brought the wine to her lips.
It was delicious. Abominably delicious.
She had absolutely no doubt he had taken it upon himself to sample every wine on the Continent, because surely there could not be one better than this. It was oaky and fruity, dry and smooth.
“Well?” he prompted.
“It’s the best wine I’ve ever tasted,” she admitted.
His boyish grin lit the room. “Just wait until you try the others, Miss Thorne.”
“I think you’ve earned the right to call me Unity,” she said with a laugh. “If I drink all this wine, I’ll be singing sea-songs without the least hint of proper comportment.”
“Unity,” he repeated softly, then leaned back, his eyes hooded as he considered her.
Her cheeks burned. “Don’t worry, you needn’t share your—”
“Julian,” he answered. “To be used only in private. I cannot allow others to suspect I’m a human with a Christian name.”
He was teasing her. The Duke of Lambley—er, Julian—was well aware of his haughty reputation, but of course he must also have friends.
And was treating her like one of them.
“Now,” he said. “This next grape...”
She questioned him on every detail, doing her best to commit every nuance about this evening to memory. The sweetness of the grapes, the savory nuts and cheeses, the crunchy bitterness of the seeds.
But most of all, she wanted to remember how this moment felt. The Duke of Lambley, patient and teasing, charmingly delighted every time a grape or a wine pleased her.
It almost felt as though... he were wooing her.
Which could not be.
She was temporary. He had been clear.Shehad been clear. He was in the market for a very specific bride, and if this interlude proved anything, it was that Unity could not be less suited for the role. There was no sense pretending otherwise.
He was a duke. A baroness would be beneath him. The thought of wedding a textiles heiress, laughable. Unity was not even that lofty. She was neither titled nor rich nor a pale English rose or any of the other requirements on his list.
