“Luckily, my father finds the delights of fresh air as pleasing as a dead fox, so he isn’t bothered by failure,” Squibby said.
True, the marquess is always cheerful. Rumor has it that his lordship maintains dozens of mistresses, all at the same time, but I have never dared ask about that.
“I have a literary question,” Squibby said. He was sprawled across the carriage in such a way that his thigh was touching my leg. I would have edged away, but then it would be obvious that I felt the press of his leg.
Which I didn’t. Or shouldn’t have.
Except I did. His breeches were very tight, and his leg seemed disgracefully muscled, perhaps because of a familial propensity for outdoor exercise.
“Ask me anything,” Boucheron said, waving his hand languidly in the air.
“Why are larks alwaysmerry? Nightingalesgentleand, for that matter, why is their songsilvery? I’ve never seen a bosomheave, but they do it all the time in print.”
I couldn’t help laughing. “A robin is alwaysperky, and a serpent’s tooth is alwayssharp.”
Squibby’s eyes lit up, but before he could throw in more adjectives, Boucheron tossed his forelock like an agitated horse and demanded, “Are you implying that my novel was clichéd?”
“I didn’t read it,” Squibby said. “Not for want of trying. My father bought four copies and gave them all away, and my understanding is that it sold out.”
“True,” Boucheron said, unable to suppress a triumphant smile. “Four hundred and fifty copies, gone within the month.”
“I’m sorry not to have read it,” I said. “What was the title? Perhaps Colonel Brandon has a copy in his library.”
“He hasn’t,” Boucheron said, the smile falling from his face. “I asked him, but he said that novels are secular and unedifying.”
“I know,” I said with a sigh. “He read one novel and will never read another, but I thought he might have bought one out of politeness.”
“He is not a man of culture,” Boucheron said in a brooding sort of way.
“He is extremely fond of music and has a well-informed mind,” I said, feeling a spasm of loyalty. “He can tell you all about the East Indies.”
“Never mind about his being a man of culture,” Squibby said to Boucheron. “Neither are you.”
“I certainly am!”
I decided it was time to intervene. “We have arrived,” I said. “Squibby, stop being so rude.”
Boucheron scrambled out and then paused, waiting to assist me from the carriage.
“Do you suppose you might call me Hugh?” Squibby asked, blocking me from leaving.
I stared at him, perplexed. No more Snaps and Squibby?
“Perhaps just in public?” he qualified. “You addressed me as Hugh in your letters, and I quite liked it.”
A horrible thought occurred to me. “Did I just embarrass you?” I tried to remember whether I’d addressed him as Squibby in front of Lord Boucheron. “Would you prefer Lord Vaughan?”
“For Christ’s sake,” he growled, turning and jumping out of the carriage.
Which was not helpful.
Boucheron poked his head in. “Miss Dashwood, may I assist you to alight?”
It was absurd to feel so hurt by Squibby’s—no, byHugh’s—response. I should stop thinking of him as Squibby, obviously. He is Hugh, a future marquess.
Only best friends call each other by nicknames. That time is over. Squibby and Snaps are as dated as childhood toys. We are history.
Of course, he doesn’t want anyone to think that we had been so intimate. The fact that my heart felt pierced was absurd. (“Pierced?” It is hard to describe the peculiar nature of the pain.)
