He shook his head. “Yet we are walking alone at present.”
“Hardly alone,” she pointed out, as they fought the tide of pedestrians. “Surrounded by well-heeled Londoners on a street of luxury shops. We might not even be associated with one another, but simply allowing happenstance to push our feet along the same path.”
“I wondered if it were appropriate to take your arm,” he offered.
“No, thank you. That would imply an arrangement between us, an understanding of the kind you seek with Lady Emily.”
The kind she had hoped to have with some eligible bachelor, but could no longer imagine with anyone other than Greer Carson. It was downright irritating! He was an uncouth American, and she had danced with London’s finest. And she had found them all lacking, or at least not as appealing in comparison to the man she’d come to know. She supposed Lord Melton was the least objectionable of the lot.
“I think the more time you devote to Lady Emily, or I spend with some viscount or other” —it didn’t matter which one!— “the better it will be. Truthfully, I think you should reserve all museum-going and other sightseeing for someone you are trying to woo and win.”
“Except for Madame Tussaud’s,” he persisted, and she glanced at him. Greer was smiling down at her.
“Except for that, yes,” she agreed.
And then, he ran headlong into a couple coming in the other direction, knocking down the woman, while the man who’d been holding her arm nearly fell as well.
“My word!” the man exclaimed, as his hat went flying. Immediately, he turned to assist the woman off the pavement.
Greer dove forward, grabbed hold of her other hand, and yanked her to her feet. Beatrice put a hand to her mouth, gasping. He should not have touched the lady so informally without even a by-your-leave. What’s more, she watched as the man’s hat rolled a few feet and disappeared into the sea of pant legs and gowns.
Dashing forward, she tried to retrieve it only to spy it at the exact moment a man trod upon it unaware. Looking down, he kicked it to the side and continued on.
“Bugger it!” Beatrice muttered under her breath. A second later, a familiar face bent down and retrieved the hat.
Hurrying toward him, Beatrice said, “Lord Melton, so good of you to pick up the hat.”
When he hesitated, she feared he had no idea who she was outside of the ballroom and a gorgeous gown. She saw the instant he realized it was her, clad in a simple day dress. Smiling, he bowed, and she nodded in return.
“Miss Rare-Foure. How unexpected, and most fortunate in this case. We were both doing a little shopping apparently.”
She didn’t correct his assumption, which was perfectly sensible when seeing someone on New Bond Street, except she didn’t have a package or bag as evidence of such an idle pastime.
Keeping her wrapped hand under her cloak in case he asked questions, she gestured with her other one to the flattened felt bowler.
Lord Melton examined the squashed hat in his hands, turning it over to look inside. “A shame. It was a good one from Lock’s,” he proclaimed. Then he gave her a quizzical look. “This ruined hat cannot possibly be yours.”
“Thankfully, no. But I saw it come off the head of a gentleman over there,” she pointed behind her, “and was hoping to recover it for him.”
“I dare say the man will not care for its return in such a condition, but let us try.”
Walking beside her, they returned to the scene where the lady was turning in circles so her husband, as Beatrice assumed him to be, could determine if she had ripped or soiled her skirts. Alas, she had done both. Greer was uttering words of apology, which were being ignored.
“My hat!” the man exclaimed, sadly eyeing the damaged item that Lord Melton handed him.
“It was trod upon before I could rescue it,” Beatrice explained.
“This lady is correct,” Lord Melton said. “It seems you need to take better care of your headwear and your companion.”
While Lord Melton said the insulting words, he didn’t so much as crack a smile. Greer, however, made the dreadful error of chuckling. Beatrice cringed inwardly. The American apparently thought they were all going to have a good and friendly laugh over the couple’s mishap.
He was wrong.
The man with the ruined hat began to splutter. The lady whose dress was torn, with her petticoats on display, began to cry, and Beatrice wished she could back away from the mess, but Greer still held her satchel.
Lord Melton, on the other hand, was able to leave. Leaning close to the affronted couple, the viscount said conspiratorially yet so all could hear, “You must forgive him. He is an American.”
With that, he turned to Beatrice. “I shall see you at the fancy-dress ball, I hope.” Then he nodded and strode off.Lucky nobleman, she thought.
