“I have a theory,” he said, “that your girls all obey you without question, not because they fear you, but because they love you.”
“A goodly number of them,” she said dryly, “would beveryinterested to hear that, Lord Attingsborough. They might not stop laughing this side of Christmas.”
They stepped out onto the terrace. It was deserted but by no means silent. There was the sound of music from the ballroom above. There was also the sound of merrymaking and music of a different sort coming from the direction of the stables and carriage house, where grooms and coachmen and perhaps some off-duty servants were enjoying revelries of their own while they waited to convey their employers home.
“I am Lord Attingsborough again, am I, Miss Martin?” he said, turning to walk in the direction of the stables. “Is it not a little ludicrous in light of last evening?”
That irresponsibility had seemed somewhat excusable then because it was never to be repeated—she hadknownthat Miss Hunt would not break off her engagement permanently. Last night had been a once-in-a-lifetime thing, something she would remember for the rest of her life, a private tragedy she would hug to herself and not allow to embitter her.
The fact that Miss Hunt had ended the betrothal again tonight—and permanently this time—ought to have simplified her life, raised hope in her, made her happy, especially since he had immediately asked her to waltz with him and then asked her to walk out here with him.
But her life seemed more complicated than ever.
“If you could go back,” he asked, somehow picking up her thoughts where he had interrupted them, “and refuse my offer to escort you and your two charges to London, would you do it?”
Would she? Part of her said an unqualified yes. Her life would be as it had been if she had said no to him—quiet, ordered, familiar. Or perhaps not. Perhaps she would have met Charlie anyway at Susanna and Peter’s concert—and perhaps she would have reacted slightly differently toward him. Without the existence of Joseph in her life, perhaps she would have fallen in love with Charlie again. Perhaps she would now be making a decision regarding him. Perhaps…
No, it was impossible. It never would have happened. Though perhaps…
“It is pointless to wish to change one detail from the past,” she said. “It cannot be done. But even if it could, it would be foolish to do it. My life would have progressed differently if I had said no, even though it was only a few weeks ago. I do not knowhowit would have progressed.”
He chuckled before striding away from her into the revelries about the carriages and returning a few moments later with a lit lantern.
“Wouldyoudo things differently?” she asked.
“No.” He offered his free arm and she took it.
He was tall and solid and warm. He smelled good. He was handsome and charming and wealthy and aristocratic—he would be adukeone day. And he was very, very masculine. If she had ever dreamed, even at her age, of love and romance—and of course, shehaddreamed—it would have been of a man altogether different in almost every way.
“What are you thinking?” he asked.
They were walking down the main driveway, she realized, in the direction of the Palladian bridge. It was rather a dark night with high clouds hiding the moon and stars. The air was far cooler than it had been last evening.
“Of the man of my dreams,” she said.
He turned his head toward her and lifted the lantern so that he could see her face—and she his. His eyes looked dark and unfathomable.
“And?” he prompted.
“A very ordinary, unassuming gentleman,” she said, “with no title and no great wealth. But with an abundance of intelligence and good conversation.”
“He sounds dull,” he said.
“Yes, and that too,” she said. “Dullness is an underrated quality.”
“I am not the man of your dreams, then?” he asked her.
“No,” she said. “Not at all.”
They stepped onto the bridge and stopped by the stone parapet on one side to watch the water flow dark beneath on its way to the lake. He set down the lantern.
“But then,” she said, “I cannot possibly be the woman of your dreams.”
“Can you not?” he said.
She could not see his face, the lantern being behind his head. It was impossible to know from his tone alone whether he was amused or wistful.
“I am not beautiful,” she said.
