Into an unlit corner, Mina shrank, hoping to avoid his attention. Of course, he’d seen her dancing with Lucy, but perhaps he hadn’t really noticed her. Members of thetontended not to look directly at her. Except when she wasn’t looking at them. Then they feasted their greedy eyes on her to their heart’s content.
“Lulu, Grandpapa has sent for you to meet him in the ballroom.”
“Me?” Lucy squealed. “At the ball?” She fled the room without a single backward glance as if the slightest hesitation would render her invitation null and void.
Mina’s attention remained fixed on Lord Avendon. Instead of following in Lucy’s turbulent wake, he strode deeper inside the room and stopped in front of a bookcase, clearly perusing titles. She stood still as a statue as if he was a wild animal, and the smallest movement would scare him away. Or invite his notice.
She wasn’t certain which would be worse.
His gaze scanned gold embossed titles, down the line, one after the other. Which books interested someone like Lord Avendon? What did the heir to the sun read?
Now no more than ten feet from her, his eyes continued roving left, toward her, and stopped, a particular title catching his attention. He reached up and began to slide it out. She opened her mouth to ask which book and snapped it shut. She was trying to remain unnoticed, after all. Still, what book could it be?
She tried to make herself smaller in her little corner, her heart pounding, anticipation racing through her veins. Perhaps he wouldn’t see her . . .
His head angled left, and his translucent amber eyes unerringly landed upon her, not a speck of surprise in their depths. He bowed, and she lowered into a polite curtsy.
“You may want to come, too, Miss Radclyffe,” Lord Avendon said, pushing the book back into place. “I believe your father is looking for you.”
“Thank you, my lord.”
He stepped aside, clearly waiting for her to pass. As she drew level with him, her eyes darted sideways to see which book it could have been, but she couldn’t tell. They all looked the same. She continued forward and felt a seed of frustration crack open. Curiosity must always be satisfied, no matter the cost. Her feet planted in lush, Aubusson carpet, and she swiveled around, the question on her lips, ready to be asked.
She gasped. He was closer than she thought. Taller, too. Taller than her. A rarity. Her gaze lifted to meet his, and she cleared her throat. “May I ask which title you were perusing?”
A confounded look crossed his features, and he appeared his age. A few years older than her. No more than that. He mostly didn’t look like a future duke. He reached over, slid the book out, and cleared his throat. “Emile, or On Educationby Jean-Jacques Rousseau, it appears.” He turned the book over in his hands a few times, as if to test its weight, and met her gaze, his head cocked to the side.
A smile sprang up from the soles of her feet. “Emileis the foundational text of my and Lucy’s school, The Progressive School for Young Ladies and the Education of Their Minds. Of course,” she added, “as applied to females instead of males.”
His eyes clouded over, and her smile dropped, suddenly conscious of itself. He pushed the book back into place, and his usual air of . . .dukeliness. . . returned. “Honestly, Miss Radclyffe,” he replied in a voice reeking of disinterest, “I took it out at random. I don’t give a fig about it.”
In the face of such a provocative remark, Mina’s curiosity chased away her self-consciousness. “But why?” she asked. A possibility occurred to her. “Can you read? I’ve heard that some members of the English nobility find it too tiresome ever to learn.”
A surprised laugh startled out of Lord Avendon. “Of course, I can read.”
“Then why wouldn’t you care about that book? You held it, felt the weight of it in your hands. Not to mention the fact that it’s one of the most influential books of its time. Doesn’t anything interest you?”
Lord Avendon drew himself up to his fullest, noblest height. “I’m interested in everything appropriate to a gentleman of my age and rank.”
“Appropriate?” Mina asked, nonplussed. “But that isn’t how curiosity works. It has nothing to do with appropriateness. One is either interested in the world, or one isn’t. It’s a true measure of one’s intelligence.”
Lord Avendon’s eyebrows drew together into an expression that could only be characterized as utter shocked bewilderment. “Miss Radclyffe, are you calling me a simpleton?”
The tips of Mina’s ears burned in sudden mortification, and her heart became a hammer in her chest. She’d been too bold, gone too far. Why was she speaking this way to this young man of all people? She hadn’t the faintest idea, but now that she’d started, she couldn’t seem to stop. “I wouldn’t say I’ve directly called you a simpleton, but in my word choices, I might have implied it. In my experience, someone who is interested in little is of little interest.”
Lord Avendon’s mouth gaped open for an instant before he recovered himself. “Miss Radclyffe, I’ve never met anyone quite like you.”
“That’s because you only associate with your kind.”
“My kind?”
She nodded. “You might try casting your social net a bit wider, so to speak.”
Lord Avendon opened his mouth to reply when the exterior French doors opened and in walked Lady Olivia Montfort, Lucy’s mother. She was a vision in ivory and gold, the epitome of the English lady. The sort of lady Mina never would . . . nevercouldbe.
Lady Olivia’s eyes darted between Mina and Lord Avendon. “Have I interrupted something?”
“Not at all,” Lord Avendon said smoothly. He appeared to have recovered himself. “Miss Radclyffe was just educating me on some of the finer points of Society and questioning my intelligence.”
