Chapter 10
“Ithink we should play a game,” Augusta said.
Ronan’s gaze lifted slowly, and the suspicion that entered his expression was so immediate that Augusta almost laughed.
“No,” he replied.
“You do not even know what the game is,” Augusta said, leaning back in her chair as she studied him. “You cannot refuse something before hearing the rules, particularly when I have spent the greater part of dinner behaving with remarkable restraint.”
“You have been unusually quiet,” Ronan said, and then he reached for his wineglass. “I assumed you were preparing to ask something unpleasant, and your announcement has done nothing to reassure me.”
“It is not unpleasant, although I admit that your refusal before I had explained it suggests you understand yourself well enough to know that ordinary conversation presents a danger.”
“I have no objection to ordinary conversation,” Ronan replied. “I object to conversations you disguise as games, since I suspect the disguise exists only to make it more difficult for me to decline.”
Augusta smiled, although she tried to make the expression appear innocent.
“We each ask one question, and the other person must answer honestly,” she explained. “Then the turn passes, and the game continues until one of us decides that we have learned enough for a single evening.”
Ronan rested his glass on the table.
“That is not a game,” he said. “It is an interrogation with alternating participants.”
“It cannot be an interrogation when you are allowed to question me in return.”
“It can, if your questions are carefully chosen and mine are not.”
“Then choose yours carefully.”
Ronan watched her in silence, and Augusta could almost see him searching for the hidden purpose behind her proposal.
“You have already decided what you intend to ask,” he said at last.
“I have decided upon the first question,” Augusta admitted. “The rest will depend upon your answers, although I promise that I am not attempting to uncover state secrets, hidden debts, or evidence of crimes you have successfully concealed.”
“You continue to mention crimes with troubling ease.”
“You married me after I accused you of one, so you cannot now complain that the subject has entered our conversation.”
“I can complain about anything I please,” Ronan said, although there was the faintest movement at the corner of his mouth. “Whether you listen is another matter.”
“Then you agree.”
“I have not said that.”
“You have already begun arguing about the rules, which means you are participating.”
“That is a remarkably dishonest interpretation.”
“It is an efficient one.”
Ronan gave her a long look, then he leaned back in his chair with the resigned manner of a man accepting an inconvenience that could not be avoided.
“One question each,” he said. “And either of us may refuse if the question is unreasonable.”
“That defeats the entire purpose,” Augusta protested. “The other person must answer, or there is no game.”
“I will not agree to answer any question you choose without limitation.”
“You are a duke, and I am your wife, so I cannot imagine what scandalous secret you believe I intend to extract over roasted pheasant.”
“That sentence contains several reasons for caution.”
Augusta narrowed her eyes. “Very well. We may refuse one question each, although only one, and if you waste yours on something harmless, you cannot complain later.”
Ronan inclined his head. “Agreed.”
Augusta sat straighter, pleased by the small victory.
“My first question is very simple,” she said. “What is your favourite colour?”
Ronan stared at her. “That is your carefully prepared question? You summoned me into a game of compulsory honesty so that you could ask about colour?”
“I did not summon you anywhere, since you were already seated at your own dining table, and I chose a simple question so that you would stop behaving as though I intended to expose you before the House of Lords.”
Ronan considered the matter with unnecessary seriousness.
“Black,” he said.
Augusta looked at his coat, his waistcoat, and the dark cravat he had chosen for dinner.
“That answer required very little imagination.”
“You asked which colour I prefer, not which answer would entertain you.”
“Do you truly prefer black, or do you wear it so often that every other colour now appears alarming?”
“I prefer it,” Ronan replied. “It is practical, it does not require consideration, and no one attempts to discuss it with me.”
“I am discussing it with you now.”
“Yes, which suggests I overestimated its usefulness.”
Augusta smiled and lifted her wineglass.
“Your turn.”
Ronan’s gaze moved over her gown before returning to her face.
“What is your favourite colour?” he asked.
Augusta frowned. “You cannot simply repeat my question.”
“There was no rule preventing it.”
“It shows a lack of effort.”
“It shows that I wish to know your answer.”
The directness of his reply unsettled her more than she expected, and she looked down at the pale green silk of her gown before answering.
“Blue,” Augusta said. “Not the pale sort that nearly becomes grey, and not the bright shade one sees in ribbons intended for children, but a deep blue, like the sky when evening has only just begun, and there is still enough light to see the shape of everything.”
Ronan remained quiet for a moment.
“That was a much longer answer than mine,” he observed.
“My answer had thought behind it.”
“My preference does not become less sincere merely because I expressed it efficiently.”
“It becomes less interesting.”
“You did not ask for an interesting answer.”
Augusta shook her head.
“You take the pleasure out of simple things with extraordinary skill.”
“And yet you proposed the game.”
“I remain hopeful that you may improve.”
Ronan’s gaze lingered on her face, and although his expression remained composed, Augusta sensed that he was amused.
“Ask your next question,” he said.
Augusta considered him for a moment.
“What is your favourite food?”
“Roast beef.”
She waited.
Ronan raised one brow. “Have I failed again?”
“You might explain why.”
“I like the taste.”
“That cannot be the entire answer.”
“It is food, Augusta. The taste is generally the relevant quality.”
“You must have some memory connected to it, or some particular way you prefer it served, or perhaps it was something you ate as a child when your father returned from travelling.”
Ronan’s expression changed slightly at the mention of his father, although his voice remained even.
“It was served on Sundays when I was young,” he said.
“My father insisted that we dine together whenever he was at Ravenhill, even when his work kept him occupied for the rest of the week, and roast beef was usually served. I suppose I became accustomed to associating it with the whole family being present.”
Augusta’s teasing faded.
“That is a proper answer,” she said.
“It is a longer answer.”
“It is both.”
Ronan picked up his fork, although he did not return his attention to his plate.
“What is yours?” he asked.
“My favourite food?”
“Yes.”
Augusta thought for a moment, even though the answer had been obvious from the beginning.
“Lemon cakes,” she said. “Although they must have enough lemon to taste sharp beneath the sugar, and the icing must be thin, since thick icing makes everything cloying. Charity says I always choose food that is too sweet, while Matilda eats twice as many as I do and somehow escapes criticism.”
“That sounds like a grievance rather than an explanation.”
“It is an important part of the answer,” Augusta replied. “You mentioned your family, and I mentioned mine.”
“You mentioned unfair treatment involving cake.”
“Family history often begins with unfair treatment involving food.”
Ronan almost smiled.
“Do you eat lemon cakes often?”
“Not as often as I would like, since a lady is not supposed to appear too interested in food, particularly at social gatherings, where she must pretend that three bites are enough to sustain her through several hours of dancing.”
Ronan’s expression became genuinely perplexed.
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why must she pretend not to be hungry?”
Augusta stared at him. “It is considered more refined.”
“It sounds foolish.”
“It is simply how ladies are expected to behave.”
“That does not make it less foolish.”
Augusta set down her glass.
“It is my turn to ask a question.”
“You have not answered mine.”
“You did not ask one.”
“I asked why women pretend not to be hungry.”
“That was not part of the game.”
“It was a question, and you must answer.”
Augusta narrowed her eyes, although she could not deny that he had found a way to use her own rules against her.
“Ladies are taught that appetite should be discreet,” she said. “That applies to food, conversation, attention, and almost everything else. A woman who wants too much is considered vulgar, while a woman who appears satisfied with very little is praised for her elegance.”
Ronan’s face hardened with something between disbelief and irritation.
“That is absurd.”
“It may sound absurd when stated plainly, although customs often do.”
“Then stop following it.”
Augusta gave a short laugh. “You say that as though one may simply decide that society no longer exists.”
“One may decide that its opinion is irrelevant.”
“That is easy for you to say.”
“Why?”
“You are the Duke of Ravenhill,” Augusta replied.
“You may refuse invitations, offend hostesses, leave dinners early, and wear the same expression at every gathering, while people call you eccentric or intimidating and continue inviting you. A woman does not possess the same freedom. Every gesture is examined, and every error becomes evidence of her entire character.”
Ronan looked at her steadily.
“You interrupted a wedding and accused a duke of murder in front of half the ton, yet you survived.”
“I survived by marrying the duke.”
“That was your choice.”
“It was also the only choice that prevented the scandal from destroying me completely.”
Ronan’s expression grew more serious, although Augusta continued before he could answer.