She had the look of a woman prepared to fightandflee. He required that she not do either. A whisper of what she had witnessed in the dark was survivable. However, a shriek in the ballroom would be ruin, or at least inconvenience. And hedislikedinconvenience.
“Stay a moment,” he said, light as idle talk on a promenade. “You came out for air. Take it.”
She inclined her head, neither meek nor bold. Her fan tapped once against her wrist. “I have already taken the air, Your Grace, but I commend you on how considerate you are.”
“I try,” he replied.
In reality, he most certainly didnottry.
Silence fell between them, filled with the chirp of insects and the distant sweep of violins.
“How long have you been watching, littlevoyeur?”
He thought of Lady Lillard disappearing tonight after they had been caught and felt only relief. Clean endings were a courtesy to which he had accustomed himself. On second thought, this interruption was quite welcome.
“Only a moment. Honest,” she said quickly.
For some reason, he believed her.
“Well, you have chosen the wrong part of the garden,” he remarked. “There are roses on the southern path that would better suit a lady’s sensibilities.”
“Those are crowded,” she pointed out. “I prefer quiet paths.”
“Curious,” he murmured. “So do I.”
Her laugh was soft and disbelieving as she waved towards the bushes she had found him in. “I had gathered as much.”
Victor kept his breathing even. He did not enjoy being laughed at. “We should understand each other, then,” he said rather curtly. “You will tell me your name.”
“No, I don’t think that I will, Your Grace.”
He let the word hang between them. “Bold.”
“Prudent,” she corrected, cool as porcelain. “And practical. What would you do with a name? Announce it at dinner? Have it engraved on a card? Exact revenge on my family?”
His interest was piqued. Most women gave him what he asked forwhenhe asked for it. This one measured her replies, then offered them like coins to a beggar—one coin at a time.
“A name allows me to return a courtesy.”
“What courtesy was on offer, precisely?”
“My discretion,” he replied. “And my gratitude.”
She looked past him at the yews. “I doubt you are ever grateful for anything, Your Grace. Men like you are accustomed to the world picking itself up and moving out of your path.”
The neat accuracy of it tipped a small smile to his mouth. He did not allow it to show. “Men like me. You speak as if you had catalogued a series.”
“I listen.” Her fan breathed open. “You are not the only subject that interests the ton.”
Ahh, a little liar.
For he knew the ton had no ammunition against him, save for what he had allowed them to see and know.
“The ton is often wrong.”
“So I am told.”
He felt a small bite of irritation. No rise, not even at that. No flush. No stammer. She had seen his mouth within a whisper of another woman’s, and the closest she had come to outrage was a small, poisoned joke about a rehearsal.
