“Lady Margaret! Come now. Such statements will not help your situation.”
“I only jest. Mostly. Help me understand, then, what is forgivable and what is not. For example, what if I show a little bosom?”
He pushed away immediate thoughts of her bosom. “Forgivable.”
She placed the tip of her forefinger against her dress’s neckline and drew the fabric lower. “To here?”
He tapped his foot with discomfort as the banished thoughts returned with a vengeance. “Forgivable.”
She moved the fabric lower still. “And here?”
He stared at the expanse of exposed flesh formerly hidden from view and stammered a reply. “Forgivable, but only just so.”
Regrettably and thankfully, she stopped there and pointed toward her feet. “What if I show my ankles?”
Henry tried to dismiss the rampaging thoughts of Lucy’s bosom as he considered the question. “Unforgivable for a time, but you might recover eventually with a lengthy streak of propriety. Particularly if your ankles are of a pleasing shape.”
Lucy glanced up sharply at that last statement. Her breath caught briefly. “What, then,” she said slowly, “is your assessment of my ankles, as you saw them when we rode?”
Henry tried not to stare at the hem of her skirt as he recalled her ankles, and the pleasing contours he had glimpsed. Her ankles were thin, rising to a rounded calf…
“Mr. Beaumont.”
He glanced up to catch her gazing wide eyed. “Yes?”
“You seemed to go away for a moment. Are you ill?”
He shook his head so violently his neck rattled. “No, I am not ill. And your ankles are of no concern, because you will refrain from exposing them to anyone from this point forward. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” she replied demurely. “I understand. Although a new question nags me.”
He braced himself. “I cannot wait to hear it.”
“What if, sir, I witness something so terribly vulgar that it sends me into hysteria, and in my hysteria, I rip the clothes from my body and run naked through the streets? Forgivable?”
His face went hot and his thoughts began to drift, unmoored by the image of Lucy running through the streets with no—he shook away the startling vision. “Eternally unforgivable. And, please, never say that word in public.”
Lucy eyed him coyly. “What word?”
“Thatword.”
“That word,” she said ponderingly. “Oh! Do you mean ‘naked’?”
“Yes,thatword. You must never saythatword in mixed company. It is vulgar to do so, and vulgarity is, of course, unforgivable.”
She smiled. “I see. So once again, let me assess my understanding of the rules, if I may.”
“You may,” he said defeatedly, “but only if it pleases you.”
“It pleases me.” She lowered her chin and gazed intently at him. “A man may be forgiven for extramarital congress, complete with actual practice of the word I cannot say, but I cannot be forgiven for saying the same unmentionable word in mixed company? Is that right?”
He paused, suddenly recalling the dread of French cannon fire descending on his position. “Ah. Yes.”
She nodded sagely. “Can a man, then, be forgiven for saying that same forbidden word in mixed company?”
“Yes. He can.”
She smirked. “Who made these rules, then? I should like to know.”
