He laughed—a sound so cheerfully wicked it made her fists clench. “Do, by all means. It would liven up the night for everyone.”
She hesitated, caught between the prospect of humiliation and the certainty of adventure if she allowed him in. Eventually, she cracked the door an inch. Foxmere’s face appeared, eyes glinting.
“Are you hurt?” he asked, unexpectedly gentle.
She scowled. “Only my pride. I’m not sure it will recover.”
“On the contrary,” he said, pushing the door wider without trying to enter. “I believe your pride is indestructible. Like a black beetle. Or a particularly tenacious rumor.”
She considered slamming the door, but he was quick—his palm pressed flat to the edge, holding it open. “Let go,” she ordered.
“Not until you explain why you were attempting to escape in,” he glanced, and his brow rose, “what barely qualifies as sleepwear, and through a window no less.”
She drew herself up, arms folded across her chest. “I was warm,” she lied. “And I needed air.”
“In that case, next time use the stairs, or step onto your balcony.”
“Next time,” she spat, “I will ensure you are elsewhere. Perhaps in France.”
He grinned, all perfect teeth and challenge. “If you wish. But I must say, I would regret missing the site. The view from below was unparalleled.”
Heat rushed up her neck. “Forget what you saw.”
“I shall try,” he said, “but I am a man of strong recollection. It’s a failing.”
Suddenly aware of her state—hair loose, skin bare, dignity still clinging to the stone outside—she wrapped her arms tighter, as if she could squeeze the memory from existence.
“You are intolerable,” she whispered.
“I am also right,” he said. “Your reputation was in more peril dangling from that window than it ever could be standing here with me.”
He waited, silent, for her to refute him. She had no retort. Instead, she watched as his expression shifted—still amused, but now softened by something like understanding.
“Goodnight, Primrose,” he said, stepping back, his shadow receding down the hallway.
Louisa shut the door, slid the bolt, and leaned against it, shivering, not from cold, but from the aftershock of exposure. She could still hear the echo of his laughter in the garden ringing in her ears.
With all the resolve she could muster, she vowed that he would never catch her off guard again.
Yet the prospect of next time was, even now, oddly comforting.
The following afternoon, Lady Louisa sat through breakfast with the resolve of a woman determined to outlast both her family and fate. As always, she was the first to finish and excuse herself, leaving her mother to discuss floral arrangements with the cook and her sisters to squabble over the pronunciation of chignon.
She had almost reached the upper hallway when a shadow fell across the landing. The broad silhouette of the Earl of Foxmere loomed before her.
“You have the unfortunate knack,” she called without turning, “of being exactly where you’re least wanted.”
“I consider it a talent,” he replied, emerging from behind a bust of Cicero as if he had been lurking there for ages. “And you, primrose, possess the rare gift of being impossible to ignore.”
She contemplated escape, but there was nowhere to go except the servants’ stairs or straight through him. Neither option preserved her dignity.
Instead, she faced him, arms crossed as a shield, chin tilted high enough to invite a duel. “If you are here to discuss last night, I will save us both time. It never happened.”
He inclined his head in exaggerated civility. “Of course. But for the sake of argument, let us pretend it did. The question is… What will you do about it?”
“I intend,” she replied, “to forget. That is the entire plan.”
He smiled. A slow, feline grin that seemed designed to infuriate. “Admirable. Unfortunately, the rest of society is not so disciplined. Already, Lady Honoria is spinning tales of midnight assignations and reckless behavior. I should know, for she asked me about my favorite nocturnal habits just this morning.”
