It was a performance.
A lady’s composure, arranged like pearls, was practiced in front of a mirror until every bead lay smooth. Yet why did he wish to yank the string and watch the pearls scatter?
“You should not have wandered here,” he chided. “It is careless.”
“I am not careless,” she said in that mild tone. “I am bored.”
The word pricked him. “There are a hundred gentlemen inside who could…cureyour boredom.”
“I find that highly unlikely.”
“Then you have not tried them all.”
“I have no interest in collecting sets,” she quipped, flicking her fan shut. “Nor in being added to anyone’s collection.”
He stood very still. That had landed, which meant she was not as unaffected as she wished him to believe.
Good. A breath of heat.
He followed it.
“Return to the ballroom, then. Forget what you saw.”
“Ah. We reach the thing itself at last.” She looked up, lace shadowing her eyes. “Shameless, is it not, to do such things in a public garden?”
“Public. That is an interesting word for it. These paths belong to the Millingtons. The Millingtons belong to their whims. Their whims apparently favor shadows.”
“It’s still public to me,” she said. “I am not your hostess. I am a passerby. And you, Your Grace, are a man who has been careless with his privacy tonight.”
He felt the bite of irritation again. Sharper now, and seasoned with interest. “You sayshamelessas if you disapprove. Yet youare not morally inflamed. One would expect heat in your voice, a tender quiver of outrage, perhaps a lecture on virtue.”
“Virtue rarely improves when lectured on,” she argued. “As for heat, I reserve it for matters that merit it.”
“And my conduct does not merit it?”
“No. Is that what irritates you?”
His eyebrow rose. She was perceptive, and it annoyed him that he liked it.
He should have ignored her and let her walk away. Instead, he had spoken, and now he could not quite stop.
“I could summon the master of ceremonies and request the name that matches your gown. I could send a note to your chaperone. I could turn what you believe to be power into embarrassment with a few words.”
“You could,” she relented. “And in so doing, you would declare that there was something to hide.”
He drew a slow breath.Clever. “Who are you?”
“A woman who prefers quiet paths.”
His patience thinned. He did not like being denied. “You will not speak of what you saw.”
She tilted her head. “I was not intending to, and I will make good on it, provided that you stop pestering me.”
“Pestering?”
“It is the only right word for it,” she said politely. “If you persist, I cannot promise to be quiet. Quiet women are ignored. Irritated women arediscussed.”
He stared at her. Her gall should have amused him. It did, slightly. It also rubbed against his desire to command like salt on a wound.
