“Can you contrive not to do anything outrageous or scandalous before then?” he said without much hope.
“If I do not become too bored,” she said. “I’m becoming a little bored now.” She turned and started back.
He wondered if his hearing was failing. Bored? With him? No one was bored with him. Women never walked away from him. On the contrary, they did everything possible to prolong conversations.
He told himself she was merely being provoking. Bored, indeed. He should have kissed her until she fainted. That would teach her.
Oh, yes. And so much for his promise to make her respectable.
He went after her. “You can’t continue wandering about London on your own.”
“I am not on my own. My maid is with me.”
“A maid is insufficient, and she should not have let you bolt in the first place,” he said, though he doubted whether a cavalry could have stopped Zoe.
“I made her do it,” she said. “My sisters were coming to the house. They come every day and tell me how to talk and how to walk and how to sit and pour tea and what to say and what not to say.”
He felt a twinge of something that could have been the conscience with which he was only distantly acquainted. On the other hand, it could have been fear—far more reasonable in the circumstances.
Zoe let loose in London. Zoe, on her own. Zoe, who didn’t know how to say no.
He said quite, quite calmly, “You complained about being cooped up in the house. You’ve been cooped up in that filthy hackney. What you need is a drive in my new curricle.” He leant toward her and sniffed. She still smelled too deliciously like a sunny garden. He made himself draw away, before scent and sight and sound could lead him to another gross error of judgment.
“You badly need an airing,” he said. “I think you’ve contracted mildew.”
She walked on a few steps, then paused and looked everywhere but at him. “I know what a curricle is. An open carriage. Two horses, Papa said. It is dashing. And it goes fast.”
Marchmont discerned the gleam in her eye. She was not as indifferent as she pretended.
“I shall take you for a drive in my curricle,” he said. “We’ll air you out, then we’ll drive to the best dressmaker in London, and you may order as many frocks as you like.”
He certainly didn’t care how much they cost. He couldn’t have them billed to him, because word would get out and everyone would assume that Miss Lexham was his mistress. Still, he’d settle finances with her father. Whatever Zoe’s wardrobe cost, the price would never approach repaying what Marchmont owed his former guardian.
She continued down the hill. “I have sat in a carriage for long enough. The seats are hard and my bottom hurts.”
“You said you were bored,” he said. “You complained about your frock being unfashionable.”
“Did I?” She gave a dismissive wave, a precise replica of Aunt Sophronia’s. “I don’t remember.”
“Zoe Octavia,” he said.
She looked up at him, rolled her eyes, and looked away.
“You are as annoying as you ever were,” he said.
“So are you,” she said.
“I may be annoying, but I’m the one with the dashing curricle.”
After a moment she said, “Does it goveryfast?”
“There’s only one way you’ll find out,” he said.
“Oh, very well, if you’re going to be a pest about it.” She let out a sigh. She tucked her arm in his.
The touch sent a wave of pleasure coursing through him.
Gad, she was dangerous, he thought.
