“May I have the honor of presenting my friend, the Earl of Branford?”
“How do you do,” replied Alex with a singular lack of enthusiasm as Branford inclined a polite bow in greeting.
“May I have the pleasure of a dance, Miss Chilton?” he asked.
The musicians were striking up a waltz.
“Perhaps this one, if you are not taken,” he added, having already noticed that the dance card dangling from her wrist was empty.
She seemed to hesitate for a moment, then rose slowly and placed her hand on his arm.
Ashton was right, noted the earl. She was no raving beauty. Her hair was an ordinary shade of brown, and her mouth was a touch too wide, though undeniably expressive. She was also too tall, and her curves were not rounded enough for the tastes of most gentlemen.
But her eyes …
Her eyes were an unusual hazel color flecked with hints of mellow gold, and they had a depth to them that was intriguing, hinting at hidden facets.
However, observed Branford, if her aunt hoped to marry her off, she had better employ another modiste. The dress was a disaster. The insipid mauve color clashed with Alex Cilton’s lovely eyes, and the cut made her look gawky and ill-proportioned. Girlish ruffles and bows were overused, and the effect was more appropriate for a female of twelve rather than past the age of twenty.
Branford, whose taste in fashion was acknowledged to be impeccable, nearly winced as he turned to face her.
However, Alex—not that he would ever be friendly enough with her to use such intimacies—danced much better than he expected, moving with a lithe grace and matching his steps effortlessly. As he was deciding to forgo the usual compliments on her dress in favor of another less egregious social lie, she spoke first.
“As a matter of fact, milord, I have been very much been wanting to meet you.”
Branford closed his eyes for an instant. Now would come the usual outrageous compliments or silly simperings that every unmarried girl felt obliged to offer up to a rich, titled bachelor. He had forgotten how much he loathed all the rituals of Polite Society.
How the devil had he allowed himself to be drawn into such a stupid, senseless bet?Ashton had been right at least on one thing—he had been drinking too much of late.
Despite such thoughts, he replied in a neutral tone. “Is that so? And why is that, Miss Chilton?”
“Because in the paper you sent to the London Botanical Society on the gardens at Riverton, you were mistaken in thinking that the purple flowers planed along the stone wall of the south terrace arePetrea volubilis,” replied Alex. “They do not grow in this climate. They are no doubtClytostoma callistegiodes, which look very similar. Of course, it is a reasonable error to make when one is a novice in botany.”
It was not at all what he had expected to hear—and he nearly trod on her foot. “What?”
“The flowers bordering the south terrace,” she explained with a touch of impatience. “I take it you are theonlyEarl of Branford in England?”
Branford stared at her, momentarily speechless.
“Mr. Simpson was too afraid to correct you, but I said that was utter nonsense—any sensible person would want to know of his error.” Alex paused and regarded his stony face. “Oh dear,” she murmured, half to herself. “I had looked forward to talking about the gardens with you, but it appears that like most gentlemen, you disapprove of ladies who wish to have an intelligent conversation.”
Branford quickly recovered his wits. “You’re mistaken, Miss Chilton,” he answered dryly. “On that topic I have formed no opinion, since I have precious little experience in having a lady seek to have an intelligent conversation with me.”
Her eyes widened for an instant … and then she smiled. “Touché, my lord.”
In spite of himself, Branford found himself smiling back. The young lady appeared to have a sense of humor as well as a backbone.
“You do not look half so dragon-like when you smile,” she said after a moment’s pause. “Or do you prefer to frighten people with that black scowl?”
Branford unconsciously drew his dark brows together.
“There, you see,” she murmured. “You are doing it again. Itisquite intimidating, you know.”
“And you, Miss Chilton—are you always so outrageous? Or are you just hoping I will take you back to your chair so you can resume your own private thoughts and not have to be bothered with mouthing polite platitudes?” He watched a wave of surprise wash over her face. “You are not the only one capable of observing people,” he added softly.
Her eyes met his for a moment, the gold flecks alight with some unfathomable emotion, before she dropped her gaze in some confusion.
“Now, about my gardens,” he added, “what would you like to know?”
