Argyll counted. Waited. Allowed the naïve chit to believe herself safe, a victor yet again in the game of cat and mouse they played.
Taking a small sip from his flute, he savored the bright crispness that coupled with the scents of rose, tuberose, jasmine and orchids outside. A former rake of Argyll’s ranks, the since-reformed Lord St. Cyr, would know precisely the effects those flowers would have.
Then Argyll set after the lovely chit. Unlike the telltale click of when Miss Caldecott let herself outside, Argyll did so with nary a sound. As it was unseasonably cold for the season, his breath left a small cloud of white in the night air.
Argyll did a slow, silent sweep of the terrace, sipping as he went.
It took but a stealthy trace along the stucco tiers to ascertain the chit had again got the better of him.
Bloody hell.
Striding over to the stone balustrade, Argyll set his glass down and peered out. He scoured Lady’s St. Cyr’s grand gardens. At its center stood the recently erected one-acre deep, Humphrey Repton high-hedge maze. It’d take him a bloody eon to find the fleet-of-foot chit. His former rake compatriot, St. Cyr, conspired against all the former chaps he’d once kept company with.
Silently cursing, Argyll yanked his gloves off and slapped them together. Even the thick shroud of clouds blanketing the night sky and shrouding a full moon conspired against Argyll.
Where are you, Miss Caldecott… Where are you…? “For, if you be not mad for love, you are mad for a hunt-up and the sport…”
A soul-empty murmuring stole across the silence. “O, what may man within him hide, though an angel on the outward side?”
Argyll’s eyes lifted slightly and then narrowed into focus. He wasn’t one to be taken by surprise, and certainly not by any woman. As a rich duke, he’d honed his senses. Otherwise, he’d have been trapped by some avaricious chit with the title “duchess” on her mind long before now.
With measured steps he faced his unwanted visitor. A second wave of shock hit hard.
His lashes swept low. The young woman had taken the ton by storm…and not for any reasons that recommended the lady. The painfully salt-white miss before him had nothing to recommend her. Her stark coloring was made more pronounced by the widow’s weeds she went around wearing. The ghastly black gown she’d donned did nothing for her figure. In fairness, the young lady didn’t possess a form of any note. “The Lady in Black.”
“To many,” she said, with an unnerving lack of intonation. “Miss Kearsley to others. Daria to my friends and family.”
As she was nothing to him, other than someone whose company he needed to rid himself of fast, he opted for no greeting.
Argyll stuffed his gloves inside his jacket. “Run along, Miss Kearsley,” he said frostily. “Adults are playing outside.”
“I applaud adults who still play games. My sisters and I do.”
Mad. The chit was madder than a hare.
To not draw the lady’s notice, Argyll collected his glass.
“Which adults are playing?” she asked.
He frowned.
From anyone, that impertinent question would have carried a challenge, mockery, even confusion. This Friday-faced miss could’ve been mistaken for a blank slate.
“Do you mean Miss Caldecott?” Miss Kearsley cocked her head. “If so, she does not wish to play any games with you.”
Knocked off-balance by this one’s knowing, he spoke before he could stop himself. “What do you know about Miss Caldecott?”
“A good deal.”
He shivered. Perhaps he need just issue Miss Caldecott a warning that the Lady in Black had an eye on her and promise his protection. That’d be enough to secure a match. Clearly, but not unsurprisingly, Craven hadn’t done that service to his sister-in-law.
“You are the Duke of Argyll.”
“Iam.”
There came neither the usual sigh or simper. But what did one expect from a bloodless, colorless sort like this one?
“I know.”
