“Parliament had not yet added Ireland,” she replied, looking back toward the house. “So, there could be some confusion.”
He hummed, sage-like. “Irish ladies are rumored to be fiercely independent. Surely one of them would have laid claim to the title, were Brummell to have included the whole.”
A half snicker escaped her startled lips.
“That is the spirit,” Bromton crooned, “laugh at their expense.”
“Please,” she eyed him askance, “do not presume to understand.”
“Has it not occurred to you that I, too, endure assumptions?”
An odd note in his voice etched a question mark in her heart.
“I imagine assumptions based on your title would elevate rather than detract.”
His gaze bore into hers. “Mocking your failed betrothal was callous and not at all gentlemanly of Mr. Brummell.”
Baby thrushes flapped their mad little wings beneath her ribs. How—with the chill in the air and the breeze—could she still feel his closeness?
“I do not run with the Carlton House set,” he continued darkly. “And I do not esteem the same things.”
“What do you esteem, Lord Bromton?”
A shadow passed over his features before he replied, “Honor.”
“Honor,” she repeated with a peculiar pang. “Once taken, honor is a difficult thing to recover.”
A muscle twitched in his jaw. “You did.”
Had she? If honor meant a sense of her place in the world, then perhaps she had—to a degree.
“How?” he asked.
“For Julia,” she responded without thinking. She stepped back. “I—I don’t know why I spoke truthfully.”
He shrugged. “Society’s false sheen has worn too thin for your first impulse to be a lie.”
“Another exceptional observation,” she managed.
“I told you, I notice detail when something is of interest to me.”
Of interest. Her mouth twisted with true bitterness. Like a specimen. Or a traveling player’s tented attraction. One unmarriageable maiden…
“So, am I of interest to you? Or just my notoriety?”
“Not your notoriety.” His eyes glowed. “But you? You interest me more so with every passing moment.”
Again. Those blasted baby thrushes. “Rousing your interest,” she said, “was not my intention.”
His gaze traveled over her ridiculous clothes. “That, I believe.”
He remained silent for so long, she became aware of the faint breeze through the hemlocks, the chirping and fluttering of birds, and even a bell’s distant chime. So much for her predicted stiff wind. Even the weather appeared to heed his command.
“I understand,” he continued, “your first betrothal was a love match.”
Septimus’s image arose again—a sharp note, playing long, even, and raw. She set it aside. Never would she discuss a perfect human being like Septimus with a man like Bromton.
“Markham’s been quite free with his tongue,” she said.
