She peeked up at him. "Don't you think you're being a bit too…obvious?"
He looked at her as if she'd slapped him. "Am I?"
They'd both stopped and she tilted her face up to his. Goodness, but it was difficult not to laugh at his antics. "Be honest. Is this how you typically speak to young ladies you may fancy?"
He tilted his head to the side, his expression thoughtful. "I might."
She arched her brows. "You might? What does that mean?"
"If I ever took a particular interest in a particularly beautiful young lady such as yourself, then…" He nodded decisively. "Then yes. I do believe I would be behaving exactly like this."
"Like a fool," she said.
"Like a smitten fool," he amended.
They stared at each other for a long moment before a little giggle escaped her. His low, warm chuckle followed.
"Very well," she said, turning to continue their stroll. "Then I suppose I shall just have to bear it."
"How good of you," he teased. "Now." He gestured grandly toward a bed of flowers. "Shall I compare you to those roses? They pale in comparison, obviously. Your beauty makes them weep with inadequacy."
Her stifled laugh came out as a snort. "The roses are wilting because it's been dry."
He didn't even hesitate. "Because they've seen you and have lost the will to compete."
She pressed her lips together. Hard. Her shoulders were beginning to shake. "Stop it," she whispered.
"Stop what?" His face was the picture of innocence. "I'm merely expressing my sincere and heartfelt admiration for?—"
"You are performing for the shrubbery."
"The shrubbery deserves to know how I feel about you."
His earnestness was what did it. Another laugh slipped out, but this one was too loud and utterly unladylike. She pressed her gloved hand over her mouth—but it was too late.
Kit's grin widened. "There she is," he said softly.
Her cheeks grew warm at the look in his eyes. It was very sweet. One might even say…tender.
Of course, it was all just for show. She looked away. This man was being paid to be charming, for heaven's sake. They were supposed to be fooling others. There was no way she would allow herself to be fooled.
And so, with a little shake of her head, she resumed walking. Kit fell into step beside her. A pair of young women passed, one of whom glanced at Kit with clear interest and then at Clarissa with barely disguised surprise.
Her? With him? The girl might as well have shouted it.
"People are looking," Clarissa whispered.
He smiled down at her. "Then it's working."
"They're wondering why you're with me," she added. She just barely stopped herself from babbling on. Doesn't that bother you? Aren't you worried about your reputation?
But no. She supposed an heir to a dukedom—and a handsome one at that—need not worry about his reputation. He could afford to be seen fawning over Cast-Off Clarissa.
"By tomorrow the story will be—" He affected a gossipy whisper. "'My dear, you'll never believe it. Stratton spent the entire picnic walking with Lady Clarissa Whitfield. He could barely take his eyes off her. I heard he compared her to roses.'"
"To wilting roses," she pointed out.
"Details." He made a scoffing sound. "The ton doesn't care about that. It's a good story they want, and that's what we'll give them."
