“I beg your pardon?” she demanded.
“Were I the father of a debutante, I, too, would not want the eyes of eligible young men drawn away from her by her more beautiful cousin.”
It seemed the simplest truth to state and not something that he should be keeping unsaid. The thought briefly occurred to him that he had imbibed more champagne than he should, and it had caused a serious breach in his defenses. He dismissed it with a shrug and a grin. What possible consequences could there be?
“That is very sweet. I do not see myself as beautiful. Amelia is beautiful. Lady Alison at Lord Swinthorpe’s dinner was extraordinary.”
Keaton shrugged. “She was nothing special.”
“How would you know?” Georgia laughed.
“A blind man’s other senses become considerably more enhanced as a result of the lack of vision. She wore your perfume, but not as well as you. She did not speak as intelligently or with as much clever wit. And she made too much noise when she ate.”
He stuck out his tongue, grimacing. Georgia laughed uproariously.
“The poor girl! What woman could ever stand up to such scrutiny? All we must do to please a sighted man is look pretty. But for a blind man, all kinds of considerations must be taken into account.”
Keaton nodded sagely. “Some rise to the challenge. I have found nothing to critique in you.”
“You have found plenty,” she tutted.
“Then I was wrong.”
Georgia had been sitting opposite him, but now shifted so that she sat on the bench seat beside him. She leaned against him, and he put an arm about her shoulders.
“You surprised me today,” he murmured.
She lifted her head a little. “With my determination to save Amelia?”
“I already knew how determined you were. When you stole my trap, for example,” he joked.
“I did not steal it,” she shuddered. “I am the Duchess of Westvale. I was entitled to take it!”
“You push the definition of Duchess given the circumstances of our marriage. Most would not assume ownership rights so quickly,” he protested, only half-jokingly.
“I do hope that this is in jest. I also hope that it is inspired by an excess of champagne because I am not sure I like this aspect of the Duke of Westvale,” she mumbled.
Keaton turned his head to her, feeling her breath upon his cheek, sweet with the wine they had shared. Her breasts pressed against his arm. Her shoulder was delicate and fragile beneath his hand. He let it slip on her scapula and then the small of her back. The touch was rewarded with a slight arching of her back, like a cat being stroked.
“Hyde Park, Your Grace!” came the shout from the driver.
It was barely audible over the steady thrum of rain on the roof of the carriage.
“It would be foolish to go outdoors in this,” Georgia breathed, leaning away from Keaton as though to look out of the window.
“It is fortunate then that I cannot see the rain. Not foolish, simply blind,” Keaton replied, laughing.
“Should we…?” she asked.
“We have already gotten drunk at a society garden party. What harm is there to stroll through Hyde Park in the middle of a rainstorm? Is anyone else present as mad as we are?”
“None that I can see.”
“Very well.” Keaton opened the door and stepped down with a splash. Immediately, rain plastered his head to his scalp, seeking the back of his collar to run down his spine and render his shirt transparent.
Georgia laughed as she splashed to the ground beside him.
“Now this is freedom!” she crowed.
