“Those are the most prudent words I have ever heard a lady of the ton say,” Graham muttered, his brows lowering. “You are a breath of fresh air in a room of cloying perfume.”
She expelled a breath. “I am an open book, aren’t I?”
“It is part of your charm, my dear.”
While sipping, she noticed how the ladies in particular slid appreciative glances at her companion. “My lord, may I ask you a deeply personal question? Be free to not answer if you do not feel comfortable.”
“Unless you ask me the contents of my coffers, I don’t think anything you ask would be out of order. Ask away.”
“You are three-and-thirty, are you not?” she swallowed over her pulsing nerves. “Surely you should have found a wife by now? How is it that you have avoided marriage for so long?”
“I was traveling for a while,” he said, gesturing with his glass. “America, the West Indies, the Far East too. Most lords stayed here, gambling, racing, sowing their wild oats, and such things, but I had wanderlust, my lady. I decided to pursue a more academic and educational life.
“When I returned, I involved myself in the arts, in theater, in music, and donating to orphanages and sponsoring promising young men to Oxford,” he said. “It was only after I decided it was time to marry. I courted a few but I found most of them were just as you described earlier, with their heads in the clouds.”
Setting the glass to the side, Bridget excused herself. “I have to visit the retiring room for a moment, my lord. Shall we reconvene this conversation when I return?”
“Absolutely, for I have the same question for you,” he smiled.
Turning, she headed off to the room and inside the water closet. Just as she entered, she heard a husky male voice slide through the slots. “He willneverbe your Sultan.”
Startled, she almost dropped the ceramic bourdaloue.
Who was that?
Sauntering up to Lord Hansen, William greeted him. “Well, if it is not the saints of the arts himself. I shouldn’t be surprised to see you here.”
“But I am,” Hansen grinned. “You avoid these things like the plague. How are you here? I pity the poor lady who is going to be under your sights.”
William sipped his champagne. “Can a gentleman not simply enjoy the arts? Enjoy a change of scenery and some eclectic company for once?”
“Agentlemancan,” Hansen replied. “But your reputation precedes you, Your Grace, or was your title as London’s most feckless rake a misunderstanding?”
“No, that one was accurate,” he shrugged.
“Has no lady ever found the strength to change you?” Hansen asked. “Surely, shuffling beds like cards is tedious business.”
“The reformation of rakes is the stuff of fiction, of those pretty words the Bard made us believe, the stuff of operas and ballads and songs.” William threw back the rest of his drink.
“In real life, a woman, no matter how virtuous she is, can no more change a man’s heart than a leopard can rearrange its spots. Speaking of ladies, were you not speaking to one a while ago, a petite little thing?”
“Lady Bridget Wycliff,” Hansen said, unsuspecting. “She is a lovely lady, Your Grace, please refrain from terming her as alittle thing. We are courting, if you must know.”
“So, you are joining the marriage mart,” William said indolently, pivoting on his feet to look over the room. “It seems most of the men here are leg-shackled or are in the way to be. I do wish you well on your upcoming nuptials.”
“You can tell her yourself,” Hansen said, waving a hand. “She is coming this way now.”
Just as I had bargained.
Clad in a dressing gown of peach satin, her dark hair pinned atop her head, Bridget looked as radiant as Aphrodite. Her eyes widened a fraction before the expression was wiped off her face and replaced with genial calm.
“My Lords,” she curtsied.
“Actually, Lady Bridget, this is His Grace, William Hartwell, Duke of Arlington,” Hansen said, dropping a hand to her waist. “Or as others call him, theBeast of Brookhaven.”
Her eyelashes fluttered up and his chest took a wallop at the wonder-struck expression in her eyes, from the passion shining there... and the innocence. But then, her eyes narrowed warily while her voice remained as sweet as honey.
“Oh, my sincerest apologies, Your Grace,” she said, dipping her head, “I am not well-versed on thecrème-de-la-crèmeof London.”
