“I could hold Poseidon’s beard and challenge him to a duel.”
Rachel huffed, goaded by the mocking amusement in his eyes. “I worried that you’d break his kneecap.”
“What would make you think that, Miss Thorne?”
“The fact that Sir Bonneville has been glowering daggers in your backside ever since you arrived, and is sitting with his leg in a splint, propped up on a chair.”
“I can’t help if Bonneville is clumsy.”
Rachel slanted him a knowing look. “You are irredeemable.”
“So how is the husband hunt going?”
Rachel started, then shrugged, trying to appear unconcerned when she was not. “Not very well, I’m afraid.”
He taunted her with a dubious expression. “I find that difficult to believe when you have so many admirers.”
Was he jealous? No. Anthony’s concern was steeped in a brotherly nature. “Many have handsome countenances. Baron Jenkins quoted the current price of gold to the ounce. Sir Davies greatest inspiration was having tea with his mother and auntsand he shared his passion with me.”
“Passion?”
“He embroiders.”
“Confirms his birth at the top of the stupid tree.”
“And Poseidon…” she giggled at Anthony’s appropriate reference of Viscount Randall, “…dazzled me with his knowledge of geography, working jigsaw puzzles, informing me, America is to the leftof England.”
“Aunt Margaret will have to try harder finding a suitable husband.” He whirled her around, his movements, deliberate, with an animal grace.
Rachel’s shoulders drooped. She swallowed and looked away, her spirit deflated. “It is folly to believe that I would find someone. I will return to Boston and live as a maid. That is my fate.” Never had she really intended to marry anyone in England. She had come only to please Abby and to have a change of scenery. Any idea of marrying anyone of high nobility was impossible. Never would she bring her shame on anyone.
“You will not return until you have helped me with what you promised, Thomas Banks,” Anthony said.
Her brain scrambled to find a logical excuse to protest his arrogant demand. But when she raised her face, she was caught in the spell of those compelling blue eyes and clamped down on a sudden temptation to run her fingers over his wide shoulders and muscular arms. The boom of music and clatter of voices disappeared as she forced down those forbidden reactions.
“You have to help me find my unicorn.”
In his gruff, growly and roundabout way, he was making up for her disappointment by offering to be part of his discovery.Oh, Anthony, it is as if I’ve known you all my life, and when I’m with you, I don’t have to pretend to be anyone or anything.
She knewAnthony Rutland.
Becauseshe knewherself.
Pushed behind a wall of painful emotions, trapped in the swirling waters of his subconscious, existed a fear of feeling…and being vulnerable.
Her heart ached for the highly intelligent man who was unable to see how his life paralleled the reclusive Captain Elijah Johnson, the deceased sea captain, making himself into an island…untouched and…isolated. Wasn’t Anthony’s endless days spent in his laboratory, taking on seemingly impossible challenges, undeterred by failure or setbacks tantamount to the sea captain’s hoarding? Preferring to be locked in a sphere of anguish, convincing himself that life proceeds on, undisturbed, for the rest of time?
“You should marry again, Lord Anthony,” she blurted, her voice shaking with more emotion than it should.
The dance ended and walking arm in arm, his muscles flexed, a glimmering of wanted touch. Anthony Rutland did not fool her. He wanted to break free of that prison, thirsted for human contact. Teaching him to dip his toe from time to time into humanity’s maelstrom was good for him no matter how many times he told her it was illogical.
No doubt he was more entertained than annoyed by what she said.
“Yes, I should. Perhaps you can help me decide whom I should marry.”
She winced at his abrupt suggestion. Not at all was she prepared to help him select a wife. But he was offering Rachel trust. She could see it in the warmth of his eyes; hear it in the gentleness of his deep baritone voice. How could she refuse, despite his entreaty cutting her like a knife. Shameful or not, she could not say no and nodded her head, a gesture of sincerity and honesty, she was far from feeling.
Shoved to the side, Rachel looked down on a young woman who had wedged herself between them. Imogene Brougham, the darling of the evening, surrounded by a bevy of female friends and gentlemanly admirers. Rachel pasted on a smile.
