“Miss Weatherby,” came a meltingly rich, low voice from just outside the carriage. “A pleasure to see you.”
The last thing Priscilla wanted to do was look at him again. The mere sight stole the breath from her lungs and filled her pounding heart with dangerous emotions.
“Mr. Middleton,” she managed to croak. “Likewise.”
There. Was that enough? Would he go away, after having performed his duty by greeting every acquaintance, no matter how fixedly she avoided looking at his face?
“I hoped the fine weather would bring you out today,” he continued. “I was disappointed when I didn’t see you yesterday.”
Damn and blast. Priscilla’s pulse raced wild in her ears. No one had ever hoped for her before, let alone voiced disappointment at going a single day without her company. What the devil was she meant to say in response to that?
“I…” Witty banter failed her. “I’m sure you have other people to greet.”
“This is my sixth circuit about the park,” he replied cheerfully. “If you didn’t appear soon, my beleaguered friends would have started greeting me with rotten tomatoes.”
Oh, very well. Her high color was definitely due to Mr. Middleton, and not the wind.
“That’s a lovely bonnet,” he said, his gaze warm and sincere. “The indigo ribbon makes your eyes seem even more luminous than usual.”
She would toss the ribbon into the fire the moment she returned home. The bonnet’s lack of flowers and ostrich feathers was meant to make her less remarkable, not more so. Certainly not… luminous to cheerful, happy-go-lucky ton gentlemen.
This situation required a sharp, no-nonsense setdown.
“I like your cravat,” she mumbled.
What?
She liked his cravat? Brilliant.
Minus a hundred points. Minus one thousand. It was all Priscilla could do not to bury her face in her hands and throw herself from the excruciatingly slow-moving carriage.
If she did, Mr. Middleton would likely catch her in his warm, strong arms and cradle her to his wide, firm chest and—
“Thank you,” he said, as if people frequently complimented him on the one item of clothing all men wore, with little variance in location or color. “If you’re in the market for a fine neckcloth, I can introduce you to an absolute wizard of the craft over on Bond Street.”
He was teasing her, Priscilla realized in wonder. Mr. Middleton was neither rebuffed nor insulted nor bored, but rather having a spot of fun. Not at her expense, but with her. As if they were friends.
Now was definitely the time for that setdown.
“Bond Street,” she said instead, with a sad shake of her head. “I assemble my own linen by hand, one thread at a time.”
“That’s because you’re a lady,” he said solemnly, “and ladies have skills. All the gentlemen I’ve ever known are helpless as babes.”
“Not all men,” she assured him. “I believe I read a travel journal once, in which the intrepid explorer wasn’t completely useless.”
“If he wrote the journal,” Mr. Middleton whispered, “it’s probably lies.”
Priscilla placed her hands to her chest in faux outrage. “A gentleman? Exaggerating his accomplishments?”
Mr. Middleton nodded earnestly. “It happens more than you think. In fact…” He sent a furtive glance over each shoulder before leaning close. “I don’t even know any linen-drapers on Bond Street. My valet handles that. I was just hoping to see you again.”
Damn and blast.
Priscilla’s voice failed her. Any other woman would have melted right then and there. Come to think of it, she’d actually begun the melting process twenty minutes ago, when she glimpsed him from afar.
Of course she wanted to see him again. Any other woman would be halfway onto his lap by now.
Carnal possibilities aside, he seemed like a man a woman could have a wonderful time with, even when they weren’t kissing. The sort that would make a fine lover and a cherished friend.
