“When are these swimming lessons to take place?”
“In three days—that is, if Madam Chantal can produce costumes for all of us in time.” Diana had no doubt the French dressmaker could accomplish such a feat. It wasn’t as though she did all the sewing herself.
“At least we won’t have trouble deciding what to wear.”
* * *
“Swimming lessons?And you want me to provide instruction?” Greys looked up from his paper to stare at his early morning visitor—Lord Chaswick—the very same gentleman whose sister had caused Greys to toss and turn uncomfortably the night before.
“You’ve suggested it in the past.” Chaswick reminded him.
Greys had been a proponent that Londoners from all walks of life learn the most fundamental swimming skills for some time now, even going so far as to bring forth a bill that would fund a public building to house a swimming bath. Indeed, he had been more than willing to provide instruction for the women under their protection in the past.
But that was before he’d taken liberties with Diana, damnit. The last thing he needed was to have her floating about Blackheart’s swimming bath in nothing but a transparent shift, allowing him a glimpse of—
Greys scrubbed a hand down his face, disgusted with himself. He was conversing with the lady’s brother, for God’s sake.
Chaswick took a leisurely sip of his tea and then lowered it back into its saucer. “It was your cousin who persuaded my baroness, so you may thank Miss Faraday for that. Scared the stuffing out of Bethany and Collette yesterday with tales of your parent’s unseemly demise. And now my wife is adamant that she and all the ladies she cares about learn to swim in case they are ever in a boat that overturns in the middle of a lake.” Chaswick frowned. “I’ll admit, Diana’s dunking at the duchess’ garden party could have turned out much worse.”
Greys didn’t require reminding. A chill washed down his spine, even knowing that he’d never have allowed her to come to any real harm.
“I didn’t realize Violet was inclined to gossip,” Greys grumbled. But truth be told, he was glad to hear of the proposed lessons.
“Blackheart insists we make use of his swimming bath. He, of course, cannot be there, what with the bet and all. But his sisters and their chaperone will be present.”
Greys turned the page of his newspaper.
“Blackheart’s sisters are more than capable of providing instruction,” he protested. Greys had had trouble enough keeping his hands off Diana under normal circumstances. How much more difficult would it be with her frolicking around in a swimming costume, revealing far more than would generally be considered appropriate.
Chaswick, however, was scowling and shaking his head.
“The bath is deep in parts. Much better to have strong swimmers standing by in case any of the ladies meet with difficulties. Wasn’t it you who said, “A man is not learned until he can read, write and swim?”
“You mistake me for Plato.” But yes, Greys was apt to recite the quote himself. “Nonetheless, improper, Chase,” he uttered one last feeble protest.
He conceded, however, that as Posy’s guardian, he was responsible for ensuring her safety.
“The water’s fifteen feet deep in one end.” Chase fingered an unlit cigar he’d removed from his pocket. “Blackhearts staff is making arrangements to accommodate all of us next Thursday. Bethany insisted she needed at least three days for her modiste to make up swimming costumes for the ladies.”
Greys eyed the baron’s cigar. “Are you going to smoke it or play with it all day?”
“I’m cutting back at home. Bethany shares them with me occasionally, and the day before last went off on a coughing fit. I can’t help but wonder if the smoke might be bad for her health.”
“But not yours?” Greys eyed his friend doubtfully.
“Men aren’t the same as women,” the baron scowled at such an assumption, his comment giving them both cause to smirk.
“Here, here.” Greys lifted his half-empty cup of coffee.
“Indeed.” Chaswick agreed.
