He grinned, but it was a bleak, caustic thing. “If I was completely unfettered?”
She nodded.
He laughed. “Oh, I would enjoy myself. The pranks I would play! I would recruit my friend Chester and we would pour blue ruin into the lemonade at Almack’s and watch all the biddies get tipsy. Chase greased pigs through Kew gardens. Bring a monkey to tea at all the highest sticklers’ homes.”
She laughed.
“But more than that—I would speak a thousand truths. I would start small, upsetting apple carts here in London, exposing lies and deceits. I would shine the light on the corruptions that hide beneath polite veneers. I would tell the world about Lord Lowell’s trophy room. I would turn back Mr. Moore’s sleeves the next time I found him at a gaming table and show everyone the cards he hides there. I would stop in the green room at Drury Lane and tell that soprano that her high notes are flat and her vibrato uneven, and that everyone knows she beds the manager to keep her starring role. I would sit down with Lady Drummidge and tell her that she is the only one in London who does not know about her husband’s mistress, who dresses him in ruffles and nappies.”
Her mouth dropped open.
But he was not finished. His eyes were shining. “I would rent a grand, fast horse and pound through the fashionable hour at Hyde Park, scattering timid debutantes like leaves, and then I would point his head out of London, and I would ride hell for leather for—” He stopped. Glanced down at her.
“For?” she prompted.
“For the seaside.”
She knew that wasn’t what he’d meant to say.
“I would crash into the dens of a smuggling ring or two, send the ones who could be convinced of their wrong-doing back home and see the rest press-ganged, so they could repay some of the patriotic debt they’ve incurred.” He threw back his head and smiled. “I would get on a ship and travel to a quiet island in some warm sea and swim in the surf beneath the moon and the wide, dark sky.”
He looked down, then, with the air of a man who knows he’s said too much. “What would you do, Miss Mayne?”
She blinked.
“Utter freedom,” he urged. “What would you do with it?”
“My sister,” she began.
“No. You. No consideration of others, remember? What would you do—for yourself?”
“I—” She flushed suddenly. She didn’t know the answer. “I cannot . . . I’ve never . . .”
“You’ve never let yourself even ask the question?”
For the second time that evening, mortification flushed through her. Was the unhappy, curmudgeonly Lord Unwilling looking at her with pity?
His gaze sharpened. “You must marry. Those were your words, when first we met. Why? Why must you?”
She couldn’t tell him. She wouldn’t. But then she breathed a sigh of relief. She didn’t have to. The music was ending. She took her hands away from him and clapped along with the other dancers and turned back toward the spot where she’d left her aunt.
His jaw set, he led her away, off the dance floor.
“What a lovely dance,” her aunt said, welcoming her back.
“Thank you, Lord Whiddon,” she said. She meant it, too. Yet she could not quite manage to meet his gaze directly.
He nodded at Aunt Bernadine. He gave her a correct and very formal bow. Then he was gone.
“Oh, my dear.” Her aunt gripped her arm.
“Where is Harriett?” Charlotte asked grimly.
“Gone. Completely chastised.Didshe push you?”
“Of course. Do you think I toppled over on purpose?”
“Don’t be too cross, dear. I think the king must have seen it! After you were off, he turned to one of his men and made a very cutting remark about reminding the palace chef to strike oranges from the menus at the palace, as he’d quite gone off on the color.”
