“I have very little experience with romance, I’m afraid, Claire,” he said.
“And I have none at all,” she said. “We make a fine pair.”
He chuckled. “Does luncheon sound tempting?”
It did not. She did not want to go near civilization for at least the next ten years. “I suppose so,” she said.
He laughed again. “Marvelous enthusiasm,” he said, laying one finger along the length of her nose. “We had better get back and fall in with Florence’s plans for this afternoon, Claire, or we will incur her undying wrath.”
Claire really did not care about Lady Florence’s wrath, undying or otherwise. But she merely smiled.
“Naughty,” he said. “Very naughty. She is our hostess, my dear valentine. On your feet immediately.”
But he was laughing and making no move to get up himself. Another five minutes passed before they rose and mounted their horses again. Five minutes of kissing and smiling and talking nonsense.
But finally they were on their way back—to civilization and a Valentine’s house party.
After luncheon Lady Florence and all her guests drove in three closed carriages all the way to the seashore, almost ten miles distant. Not that there was anything to be seen there, she said, except a few fishermen’s cottages, but there were miles of headland to be walked along and miles of beach for those adventurous enough to descend the precipitous cliff path. And there was a small inn for those who did not enjoy being buffeted by sea breezes, however sunny the day.
“Just a short walk to look down at the sea before coming back here, Gordon,” Mrs. Tate said firmly to Lord Mingay as they all descended from the carriages outside the Crown and Anchor Inn.
“If we are not blown off the cliff, Frances,” he said. “It is considerably more windy here than at Carver Hall.”
“I have seen enough lovely scenery from the carriage windows,” Lady Pollard said. “Do you not agree, Rufus?”
Mr. Tucker put up no argument, and the two of them disappeared inside the inn in search of warmth and refreshments.
Olga Garnett thought that a brisk walk along the clifftop would nicely blow away the morning cobwebs. Sir Charles grimaced and pulled his beaver hat more firmly down over his brow. “Not only a morning person,” he muttered, “but an outdoors one too.”
Lucy Sterns was already strolling away from the inn on the arm of Mr. Shrimpton.
“The beach, Florence?” Mr. Mullins asked. “Do you know the way down? I have never been on this particular stretch of the coastline before, I must confess.”
“There is a perfectly safe path,” she said, “even though it is rather steep.”
The Duke of Langford looked at Claire with raised eyebrows.
“Oh, yes, the beach,” she said. “This is another place where we used to come for picnics in summer. We even used to bathe as children.”
“Perhaps,” he said, “you will have to carry me up this precipitous path afterward. But by all means let us give it a try.”
She laughed and took his arm, and they strode on ahead of the other couple. He let her precede him down the winding dirt path from the clifftop to the large rocks and smaller stones at the top of the sandy beach. She half ran down, tripping along the path rather like a fawn, he thought. If he did not know her and had never seen her face, he would have thought during the descent that she was a mere girl. He smiled and remembered his first impression of the prim Miss Ward just two days before.
“This could be ruinous on Hessian boots, you know,” he said when they were at the bottom and scrambling over the rocks toward the beach. “And I shudder to think what the sand is going to do to them. My valet’s wrath will be a terror to behold, Claire.”
She laughed gaily and he looked up into sparkling eyes and at rosy cheeks and untidy wisps of windblown hair beneath her bonnet. “Then you must set them outside your door and hide from him,” she said.
“Now that would be a fine ducal thing to do,” he said, laughing and catching at her hand to run—actually to run—down the beach with her toward the incoming tide. If she looked like a girl, he thought, then he felt remarkably like a boy.
“We used to stand at the water’s edge,” she said, “seeing how close we could come without getting our shoes wet. Oh, dear, that led to much scolding when we returned to our parents.”
“And I suppose,” he said, “you intend to do it again, Claire. My valet will be handing in his notice. And then what am I to do?”
“Well,” she said, “you might try cleaning your boots yourself.”
He looked at her in mock horror. “What?” he said. “Or more to the point—how?”
Love nonsense—sex nonsense—he was used to murmuring in the beds of courtesans and his mistresses. He was not used to talking nonsense for the mere sake of lightheartedness. But he talked it for a whole hour while he got his boots wet—she stayed back a safe distance, giggling; not laughing, but giggling—and then walked with her along the water’s edge, the wind in their faces, their arms about each other’s waist.
