He pushed her seat in and then claimed the chair next to hers. The table was large. Fifteen people were in attendance, which gave him time to speak with Sabrina.
“I brought some books from my library for you. I thought perhaps you might like them.”
“Oh?” Her brown eyes brightened.
“Yes, some medieval poetry, which I assure you is far more interesting than it sounds, and some rather excellent editions of Sir Walter Scott, includingIvanhoe.”
“Thank you, my lord, I would be quite interested,” Sabrina murmured around the edge of her wineglass.
Peregrine focused on her lips, such a soft pink, like the petals of a budding rose. It was a color that spoke of life to come, of kisses still on the horizon, of whispers yet to be shared, and sweet sighs that gave a man the most pleasant dreams.
“You’re staring,” the woman on his other side said in a low voice.
Peregrine turned his focus to Lysandra Russell, Lawrence’s little sister. She was an eccentric creature, as beautiful as she was intelligent, with dark-red hair and warm hazel eyes that sparked with irritation when she spoke to someone who could not keep up with the fast pace of her mind.
“What?”
“You are staring at the governess. People are bound to notice.”
“She isn’t just a governess,” he muttered back.
“Of course not. All women are more than one simple thing,” Lysandra replied. “But you had best be careful. If you keep staring, it will make her uncomfortable.”
This bit of reasoning got through to him. The last thing he wanted was to upset Sabrina, when he knew how worried she was about her status. He refocused his gaze on the food courses and politely chimed in when spoken to. But when he had the chance, he still hoped to speak to Sabrina. After dinner, he escorted her into the drawing room with the other guests.
“I should retire,” she said to him. “Isla is asleep.”
“Please stay,” he begged.
She lingered in the corner of the room. One of the women began to sing while someone played the pianoforte. Rafe suddenly called out to Peregrine.
“Rutland, you enjoy poetry—come recite something.”
Peregrine shot Rafe a stoic look. “I don’t have anything prepared.”
“Surely you have a classic memorized—all good gentlemen do,” Rafe replied. The entire room watched the two men have a momentary battle of gazes.
“Why is he forcing you to recite poetry?” Sabrina asked in a whisper.
“Because the damned fool has some idiotic notion that I will seduce you away from him and Isla. This is his way of keeping us apart.”
Sabrina let out a soft gasp, which drew his focus to the flush of color now present in her face.
“I really should go, then. I mustn’t upset Mr. Lennox.” She started to leave, but Peregrine risked Rafe’s wrath by gently taking her hand.
“Stay for my dreaded poetry recital?” he asked.
Her gaze dropped to his hand, and a flush of pink crept up her cheeks like slow-blooming flowers. She seemed to debate with herself whether to accept his strange invitation.
“Very well,” she sighed. He caught a glimmer of something else in her eyes, but he dared not give it a name.
“Rutland,now, if you please,” Rafe called out.
With great reluctance, he left Sabrina to stand at the front of the drawing room, where everyone had gathered on chairs and settees to listen. Peregrine tried to erase the glower from his face and schooled his features as he prepared himself.
At first he didn’t stare at her, but instead at the back of the room, as he’d done when he’d been a young man, forced to recite verses in the schoolroom. But soon his gaze drifted toward her, her magnetism too strong to resist.
For weal or woe I will not flee
