The duke might be hard and unfeeling most of the time, but he was a born-and-bred gentleman. If he wasn’t such a horse’s arse, he might have made a good husband. Bronwyn frowned, remembering the lady’s comments at dinner. Why had he and the former countess petitioned Parliament for a divorce and been granted one? It wasn’t any of her business, but suddenly, she wanted to know.

“Why did you and Lisbeth get a divorce?” she blurted out, softly, but she knew he had heard because the rustling a few feet away had stopped. When the silence stretched out, she thought he wasn’t going to answer and wanted to kick herself for prying or making it seem like she cared to know.

“We wanted different things,” he replied after a while. “I suppose that everything eventually runs its course and our marriage did.”

“That’s cold even for you.”

A bark of laughter flew on the air. “What offends you more, my lady? That we didn’t stick it out and take other lovers like everyone else in the aristocracy, exchanging one or two words over dinner and sleeping in different rooms once we produced an heir and a spare? Or that we decided to go separate ways because our paths diverged and it was the most sensible option?”

He had a point. Most marriages in their circles were arranged in the interests of fortune and power. It was rare that couples got along. Her own father had preferred captaining his fleet of ships to his marchioness’s bed, though he had doted on his children until his death. Her brother and Ravenna had been lucky. They were a love match. Envy bled through her and she banished it in the same breath. Yearning for something well out of her reach was not only impractical, but also useless.

“Was your former wife like you?”

The silence grew until it felt heavy and sticky. Bronwyn couldn’t see his face from where he stood near the entrance to the folly, but suddenly she had the feeling that he was watching her from wherever he stood in the shadows. “Like me?”

She swallowed. “A spy.”

Eight

“You truly do have a fertile mind, Lady Bronwyn Chase.”

She ambled toward the entrance of the building where she could detect the long shape of him propped against one side. “You know, my mother always called me by my full name whenever she was prevaricating.”

“I am a duke, Bronwyn Madeline Charlotte Chase.”

The mockery was subtle despite the knowledge of her name that made her heart kick against her ribs; the fib, however, was not. “What are you doing with your former spouse in Philadelphia then? Don’t tell me, you’re on a pleasure trip. An attempt at reconciliation? Wait, wait, I’ve got it. Shopping!”

“Business.”