He didn’t likeher; he liked the feel of her body against his. The press of her lips. That was all.
Not a foundation on which to build a marriage.
Besides, she had fled from him.
“What of Lydia?” Simon asked lazily, Maxwell’s indifference, evidently having convinced him to change the subject. “Is she settling in well?”
“She is.” Maxwell allowed himself a small smile. “She’s having a wonderful time. My only concern is that she will attract fortune hunters. She already has.”
“That’s the price of being a lady of means,” Simon said. “I expect she has more sense than you give her credit for.”
Maxwell didn’t agree. His niece was a headstrong girl, but she was also naïve. If he didn’t intervene, he worried she would allow herself to be seduced by someone looking for a marriage of convenience, and then she would have no choice but to marry him or be ruined in the eyes of theton.
“It’s all right,” he said. “All it means is I will have to attend events with her. It’s a bore, to be sure, but I would rather do that than see her fall prey to less noble minds.”
“The best uncle a girl could ask for.” Simon raised his glass with a slightly unsteady hand. “And probably the most irritating to boot.”
Maxwell rolled his eyes.
It seemed everywhere Thalia turned her head, she ran into the Duke.
So far that week, she had seen him at Almack’s, at a flower show, at a music recital, and now at a small soiree. Every time, he had seen her—she was sure he had seen her—but his gaze had passed straight over the top.
At least, to her relief, Lord Vauron had not bothered her again.Ifshe had not kissed the Duke—her mind frequently replayed that moment in her head, often at the least convenient of times—then she would have been tempted to approach him and thank him for his service.
But she had kissed him. And so, she kept her distance as much as she could manage.
“Your eyes are like the shining stars,” the man beside her said, with a smile that could almost have passed for genuine.
Almost.
Mr. Bletchley was the latest in a long line of potential suitors her father had thrown at her. This one, at least, was closer to her age, but so far under his mother’s thumb that he kept looking at his mama for confirmation that he was doing this right.
If nothing else, that would be enough to put Thalia off.
She sipped her lemonade, wondering if it was sour enough to burn through her tongue; she might be excused. Then she could go to Elliot’s studio and work on her latest commission, which she was in danger of not finishing on time.
Paying off Elliot’s many debts by promising work by the famed Alessandro Rossi was an excellent idea in theory, but it had been far less practical in actuality.
Mr. Bletchley leaned in closer, and she was at liberty to see he was balding on the crown of his head.
How old was he?
Only around five-and-twenty, she thought.
Unfortunate.
“I believe the musicians mean to strike up the first number,” he said, extending a hand. “Would you do me the honor of dancing this one with me, Lady Thalia?”
From the other side of the room, she could see her father watching her like a hawk. Over the past week, she had endeavored—subtly—to repulse four new potential suitors, and he had screamed in her face until he was purple with rage.
If she refused Mr. Bletchley now, her father would take that personally, and she would have another argument on her hands.
But before she could accept—however unwillingly—his hand, Miss Parsons approached with a lady in her wake.
“Mr. Bletchley,” she said, gesturing to the lady. “This is Miss Olivia Greene.”
Mr. Bletchley turned a shade of rosy pink Thalia hadn’t expected to see on the man, and without looking for his mother’s permission even once, extended his hand toward her.
