Rowan blinked. He was so surprised that he almost laughed. "I beg your pardon?"
"You were walking while looking at your watch," she accused. She pointed a gloved finger at his chest. "That is a dangerous habit. You could have knocked over a nun. Or a small child."
Rowan stared at her. She was not a debutante. Her dress was plain. Her hair was pulled back in a severe bun. But there was nothing plain about her face. Her chin was lifted in defiance. She did not seem to care that he was a Duke. She looked at him as if he were an inconvenience.
It was… refreshing.
Rowan slid back into his role. The Perfect Gentleman.
"You are entirely right," Rowan said. He placed a hand over his heart. He gave her his most charming, apologetic smile—the one that usually made grandmothers offer him cake. "It was clumsy of me. I was distracted. Please, allow me to apologize."
He waited for her to soften. He waited for her to say, 'Oh, it is no matter, my lord.'
She did not soften. Her eyes narrowed further. She looked at his charming smile with deep suspicion.
"You can apologize," she said flatly, "by moving out of my way."
She turned away from him. She looked down at the puddle. Her papers—her work—were soaking up the brown water.
She let out a short, frustrated breath.
"Wonderful. Three weeks of research, drowned."
Rowan felt a pang of genuine guilt. He looked at the muddy papers. "Oh, dear. I am terribly sorry."
Without thinking, Rowan dropped to his knees.
He knelt right on the dirty, wet cobblestones. He ruined the knees of his pristine cream-colored breeches. He didn't care. He reached into the puddle and began picking up the soggy sheets of paper.
"Stop that!" the woman cried out. She sounded horrified. "What are you doing?"
"Helping," Rowan said brightly. He shook a glob of mud off a piece of paper. "It is the least I can do after I ruined your… notes."
He glanced at the paper in his hand. The ink was running, but he could still read some of the words.
Subject: Lord B. Preference: Docile women. Intelligence: Low.
The woman snatched the wet paper out of his hand before he could read more.
"I do not need your help," she said, her voice tight. "Please, stand up. You are making a scene. People are staring."
Rowan stood up. He towered over her. He wiped his muddy hands on his handkerchief.
"I am only trying to be a gentleman," Rowan said. He felt a little annoyed now. He was trying to be nice. Why was she being so difficult?
"You are very prickly, Madam."
"And you," she shot back, "are very shiny."
Rowan frowned. He looked down at his jacket. "Shiny?"
"Yes," she said. She waved a hand at him, gesturing to his perfect hair, his perfect cravat, and his perfect smile. "Polished. Rehearsed. You smile at me the same way you were smiling at that young lady on the church steps a moment ago. It is a performance."
Rowan went still.
The accusation hit him in the chest. It was true. But hearing it said out loud, by a stranger in a gray dress, stung.
"I assure you," Rowan said stiffly, "my manners are not a performance. They are simply manners. Perhaps you should try acquiring some."
It was a rude thing to say. Rowan immediately regretted it. He never insulted ladies.
But the woman did not look offended. A spark of genuine humor lit up her hazel eyes. For a second, her face transformed. She looked beautiful.
"Touched a nerve, did I?" she murmured.
She stuffed the muddy papers into her bag. She didn't care that the mud was staining the lining. She stepped around him. She moved with a quick, efficient grace.
"I have work to do," she said over her shoulder. "And unlike you, my Lord, I cannot get by on charm and a family crest."
Rowan stood frozen. "Wait."
He couldn't let it end like this. He felt a desperate need to fix it. To make her like him. Or at least, to make her stop looking at him with that amused disdain.
"I owe you for the papers," Rowan said. He reached for the coin purse at his belt. "Let me pay for the damage."
It was a reflex. Whenever he broke something, he paid for it. That was how his world worked.
The woman stopped. She froze in the middle of the alley.
Slowly, she turned back to face him. Her gaze dropped to the gold coin in his hand. Her expression turned to ice.
"Keep your money," she said quietly. Her voice was full of cold dignity. "There are some things you cannot simply buy your way out of."
"I didn't mean to offend you," Rowan said. He took a step toward her. He offered his hand. "I am Rowan. Rowan Hamilton."
He waited for her to take his hand. He waited for the recognition. He waited for the change in her attitude.
She looked at his hand. Then she looked at his face. She did not raise her hand.
"I know who you are," she said. "Everyone knows who you are. The Golden Duke. Perfect in every way."
She said the word perfect like it was a dirty word.
"Good day, Your Grace," she said.
She turned on her heel. She walked away, disappearing into the crowded street. Her gray dress blended into the stone walls, swallowing her up.
Rowan stood alone in the alley. His knees were muddy. His hand was still outstretched. His ego was slightly bruised.
He should have been relieved. She was rude. She was abrasive. She clearly disliked him.
But Rowan stared at the empty space where she had been. He slowly closed his hand into a fist, capturing the empty air.
She didn't like me, he thought, bewildered. She actually didn't like me.
A slow, confused grin spread across his face. It wasn't his polished, public smile. It was a real one. It was crooked and amused.
"Well," he whispered to himself. "That was… interesting."
He didn't know her name. But for the first time in three years, Rowan was annoyed and intrigued at the same time.