Chapter 4
Miss Mayne tucked her hand into the crook of his arm, all trusting confidence and joy in the day. Her eyes were a far more interesting and complicated shade of blue than even the sky. There was a bit of silver mixed in there that stole his focus and kept him looking for more. He’d stared at her furtively even before he and Sterne had approached her, and he’d done it openly once they’d been left alone. She wore white today, a flimsy, gauzy wisp of a gown that he approved of—almost as much as he favored the dark blue sash tied beneath her bosom. It outlined her curves and darkened her eyes.
Lord, he was a fool.
He should have stayed home. His own interest in the girl was unwelcome and unwise enough, but now he knew why Sterne had pressed him to join his party today. His friends had seen and heard of his rescue of the girl—and now they were reading more into it than it warranted.
Why did marriage have to be so contagious? He knew Tensford had been forced by circumstance to look for a bride, but then the rest of his closest friends had fallen, one by one. Even Chester, by God! And now, in the time-honored tradition of the newly married, they were trying to drag the rest of the male species into the same trap.
And it was so often a trap or a trick. He’d seen it firsthand. It was why he found himself watching his friends—and especially their wives—with suspicion. Those four men were his true family. He hated the idea of any of them hurt or taken advantage of.
The fact that they all looked besotted and seemed to be living blissfully was a relief—but it also wracked his nerves.
When would the blow come? Upon whom would it fall?
And with all of that in mind, why the hell was he still mucking about with Charlotte Mayne? She’d stated unequivocally that she was looking for marriage, and he was determined to avoid the state completely.
He supposed his lingering curiosity was partly to blame. He understood that her finances, and her churlish family, meant that this might be her only chance at a Season. But there was a desperate tinge to her determination. He wanted to know what could frighten a bold, confident girl like her.
She was laughing with Penelope now, as Sterne and his wife climbed the short bank up from the water. He was forced to admit that Charlotte was the rest of the reason why he was flirting with danger. He admired her humor and he ease with which she shared it. Not to mention her long-legged grace and the way she looked with the breeze pressing her gauzy gown against her and setting the ends of her blue sash to fluttering.
He had to tread carefully here. He could satisfy his curiosity and bask a bit in her spritely, enticing and slightly vulnerable company, but he could not raise any expectations, either with her, with his friends, or with the rest of Society.
Ignoring the pointed look Sterne tossed him, he moved to the edge of the bank to assist her down. He stopped abruptly, though, as something caught his attention. “What on earth is that smell?”
“Oh, watch your feet, my lord,” Miss Mayne cautioned. “I believe the smell is rising from the line of linked fuses that will be used to light the lamps at dusk. Penelope says they use whale oil and seal blubber in them. That’s the smell you’ve noticed.”
“Ah.” He nodded and stepped over the trail of fuses to scramble down. “The Thames does have its own host of odors, but that was one I’ve never encountered before.”
He saw her safely into the boat and stepped in as a footman helped to launch it. Taking up the oars, he began to row them out as she sat smiling, her face turned into the rays of the sinking sun.
“What was that nonsense about my archery skills?” he asked gruffly, to distract himself from the lovely picture she made.
She shaded her brow with a hand and smirked at him. “I had an idea to add to your list.”
“List?”
“Of pranks. Misdeeds. The things you would do if you were free of consequences.”
“Oh. That list.”
“Yes.”
“Am I to skewer someone? Someone you don’t care for, I presume?”
“No.” She paused. “And yes.”
“Pick one.”
She laughed. “Well, you see, there are still a few high sticklers who will not receive me or my aunt.”
“No!”
“Yes. Even though my aunt debuted with some of them, herself.”
“They are probably some of the same stick-in-the-mud ladies who will not invite me into their drawing rooms, either.”
“Even better. I thought it would be incredibly funny if you invaded their sanctuaries dressed as a cupid. You could shoot them with arrows padded in red velvet and announce you’ve come to fill their cold hearts with love.”
