“Only because I’m teaching the boys estate management. All of them cannot run off to glory in a scarlet jacket.”
“In that case,” Grey said, holding out his hand to the increasingly fascinating Miss Packham, “would you allow me to put off speaking to my fiancée and do me the honor of this dance? I need to discuss livestock.”
“You have other duties now, sir. Do not shirk them for the pleasure of discussing porkers.”
He decided he was making progress when she laughed. He wasn’t as pleased to realize that it was no longer enough. Blast. As if he didn’t have enough on his plate. She put her hand in his and set off a jolt like cannon fire, and he very much feared she was not going to like what he wanted.
He wasn’t sure he cared.
“Welsh pigs,”Georgie blurted out hours later as Grey led her into the final dance.
Drat. She should have anticipated her mistake. The last dance at a ball was always the Roger de Coverly, which in the normal way of things was perfectly lovely…spritely, fun, and easy. What it was not was an easy place to share confidences, like how Greyville’s meeting had gone with Prissy. Georgie had not seen the girl faint during or after their dance, so that was a hopeful sign. But because she and Greyville would be dancing figures with four other couples, she would have no real chance to quiz him on specifics.
No sooner had she thought that than the music began, a lively tune that set everyone into motion.
“You don’t like the Welsh?” Grey asked as they spun about each other and retreated to their positions.
She had to wait until the next movement to answer.
“You were the one who asked about pigs,” she accused.
Another round.
“Evidently I actually need cows,” he said, catching her hand for a spin. “I have been conversing with some other landowners.”
She couldn’t help it. She started to chuckle. “I hope you weren’t looking for a romantic moment,” she said on next pass.
He grinned right back. “Oddly enough, I have never considered cows the least romantic.”
But now the other dancers were obviously listening in.
“I like cows,” the smilingly blonde Miss Swinton offered alongside Georgie, batting her eyes at Greyville.
He was grinning again when they met in the middle. “I stand corrected. Evidently cowsareromantic.”
Georgie spun under his arm and grinned. “Anything is romantic coming from the mouth of a marquess.” she assured him.
They skipped in and out of the line and then around to hold their hands up, letting the other couples pass through.
He scowled. “Realist. Now, what were we discussing?”
“Cows!” the rest of the set chimed in.
They barely made it to the end of the dance without falling into whoops.
“Come,” he said, slipping his hand under her elbow as the music came to an end. “Let us get some air while everyone else is saying goodbye.”
She frowned. “Why?”
He bent his head towards her. “So I may give you a full report on the evening’s progress. We have more to talk about than cows.”
“You were the one who brought them up.”
“The cows can wait,” he said. “There are a few steps to be accomplished before we’ll have a chance to rhapsodize over livestock.”
“They are really lovely cows,” she said, not moving.
His sole answer was a raised eyebrow. Georgie wished she could do that. Put him in his place. Although, truth be told, she didn’t know where that exactly was. Just this silly back-and-forth was causing the oddest fizz in her blood. That and the scent of cedar and citrus.
