He rubbed his fingers on his brow. “No, I shall come out there, Fitzroy.” He sighed as he stood, then strode out to the small foyer.
Mrs. Gillingham wore a deep blue pelisse with a cream-colored bonnet, adorned with a matching blue ribbon. And he could not even lie to himself—he found her lovely.
“Mr. Stanton.” She smiled and dipped into a curtsy. “I have come to see if you’d like to join me and get an ice at Gunter’s.”
He looked behind her toward what he assumed was a maid or companion of some sort. “Mrs. Gillingham, I’m sure you realize it is not customary for a woman to call on a man.”
“Yes, I realize that,” she admitted. “But I knew you would not, so you forced my hand.”
Putting his hands on his waist, he said, “I have forced nothing.”
Mrs. Gillingham bit her lip, her eyes narrowing into slits. Then she strode forward, stopping just before him. The blue of her pelisse made the similar color in her eyes almost startling. “I had wanted to apologize. And I thought getting an ice and going for a walk sounded like a pleasant afternoon activity.”
There was that blasted innocent look of hers again. The one that pulled at his conscience, the one that told him there was more to her and her story than just being the eccentric woman who stole his great-grandmother’s ring. Why did it get to him so?
“Apologize?” he asked, instead of immediate acceptance.
“Yes.” Her smile seemed forced. “I feel . . . poorly about the way I spoke to you yesterday. I would like to rectify that and clarify some things if you would allow me.”
“By getting an ice at Gunter’s.” He tilted his head, looking down at her, being sure she realized just what she was saying.
She fluttered her lashes. “Yes.”
“I—”
“I think it would be good for you,” she pressed on. “Get you out of the house and into the fresh air. Socialize.”
“I don’t like to socialize.”
With a breath that bespoke a loss of patience, she closed her eyes. “It would only be an hour or so of your time. Surely you have enough of it to spare that.”
“And if I don’t go?”
“The curb outside looked rather comfortable. I could just spend my afternoon there.”
“Perfect,” he said, pasting on a bright smile, pushing lightly on her back toward the door. He dropped the smile. “Have a nice afternoon, Mrs. Gillingham.”
He had no true inducement to go. He was no longer looking for a bride now that he had lost the wager, and this had nothing to do with the task for which she had agreed to pay him. If he went, it would simply be to spend time with her. And that seemed . . . dangerous. On several levels.
She narrowed an eye at him, but she still held a smirk on her mouth. “Very well.” Making her way out the door, she looked over her shoulder. “I think you underestimate my determination, Leo.”
Ugh, he hated that nickname. Is this how Ambrose felt any time they referred to him as Rosie? Poor man.
Leonard gave his head a hard shake. “Do not call me that.”
She threw a flirtatious wave over her shoulder, walking out the door with her companion. Fitzroy shut the door behind them, giving Leonard a look of long-suffering.
“I will be in the morning room, Fitzroy.” Leonard headed to his mother’s writing desk once more, ready to scribble out a quick letter to his father. But when he sat, the desk being situated next to the front window, he had a perfect view of the street. Mrs. Gillingham, surely enough, was perched on the curb, looking about as if it were a preferred activity of hers to sit along streets.
“For goodness’ sake,” he mumbled, standing and striding to the door. He flung it open. “What are you doing?” he called out.
With hands folded neatly in her lap, her back straight, Mrs. Gillingham turned and waved at him with a wide smile. “I’m just sitting. Do not let me bother you.”
“For the love of—” He pulled back into the foyer, grabbing his hat and gloves.
“Going out?” Fitzroy asked.
Leonard shook his head. “Apparently I am.”
