“Ifyouever do”—her voice was as tart as an unripe apple—“I’ll be sure to let you know.”
He let out a breath of laughter, stepping aside to usher her through a narrow doorway before him.
He could think ofsomethings she might like to hear, though they wouldn’t be about how well the slip of blue satin she wore became her or how pleasingly it skimmed her figure. No, he’d tell her about the boy, Tonks, and how he’d complained unceasingly about his bath today—surely a sign he was feeling better. He’d tell her how the boy had eaten a whole slice of cake.
Thatwould make her smile.
But before he could begin, Mrs Ardingly slowed her step, turning her head toward him. One of the dark curls of hairhanging at her neck caught on the chain of the necklace he’d given her.
“I owe you a thank you.”
Her grudging reluctance almost made him laugh again. Instead he crooked a brow. “Oh?”
“It was you who manufactured the meeting between me and the duchess. I suppose you knew about her school plans.”
“Of all the notable persons here tonight, she seemed the most likely recruit. I also spoke with Pembroke while you danced with the captain. He’s now on your board.”
She turned fully toward him, stopping in the stream of people and causing the portly man following them to take a wide sidestep to avoid a collision. “He is?”
“Don’t expect he’ll be much use. He largely agreed so that I’d stop talking to him and leave him alone to hide in the library. But it’ll look good having a marquess in your ranks.”
“Yes,” she breathed happily, turning away and resuming her walk. “So that might be two. It’s a good start for one evening’s work.” She flashed him a smile. “I’ll even let you count the captain as one of your ten. You made the introduction possible, after all.”
“Youmustbe in a good mood.”
“No doubt you’ll soon ruin it.”
It was said with a bantering smile, tossed across to him as they walked together, but it sent a hot flash of annoyance through him. At her? At himself?
“The captain disproves your theory, at any rate,” she said.
“How so?”
“He was educated at home, by his parents, who never once raised a hand against him. And yet surely his career proves he possesses every attribute a gentleman ought to—bravery, discipline, duty, honour. You once told me that schoolboys needed to be beaten in order to be worthy leaders of men, oreven simply strong enough to face the world. I have my own brothers as evidence that isn’t the case, but as you’ve not met them, and clearly my word doesn’t suffice, I give you instead the irrefutable example of Captain Littleton.”
“He certainly seemsyourideal of everything a gentleman should be.”
She gave him a very unimpressed look, but she’d married a naval lieutenant, hadn’t she? Perhaps that was her type. Suicidally heroic young men in uniform.
“Besides,” he continued, “one could argue that the brutality of war is the crucible on which such men are formed. Violence still played a part in forming the captain’s character.”
The tilt of her chin suggested she raised her eyes to the heavens. He wished they were having this conversation standing still, facing each other, where he could feel the disdainful flash of her eyes.
“I suppose no other type of man exists for you,” she said. “Men like my brothers—one a tutor, one a curate, one studying medicine—I suppose those types of men, whose strength is in their minds and their generosity and their desire tocarefor others—I suppose to you they aren’t true men at all; those qualities are all weak and womanish, no doubt.”
“I do deplore weak men, but not of the kind you imagine. WhatIbelieve, Mrs Ardingly, is that you’re determined to paint me in the blackest shades you can because otherwise you might be in danger of liking me.”
Her laugh was scathing. “There’s little danger of that, fear not. Any time I get close, you begin to talk.”
I could occupy my mouth in ways you might like better.
But, of course, he did not say that. Instead, as they reached the lemonade table, he pushed down what was threatening to become a remarkably tetchy mood. “Ah,” he murmured, as hestepped past to procure her glass of lemonade, “but youdoget close.”
He turned back to pass her the glass, amused to discover her expression as sour as though someone had forgotten to sugar the lemons.
She took the glass, sipped it, and glided—yes, she was gliding, good girl—to where the doors stood open to the terrace. An evening breeze came through them to cool the overheated guests.
They stepped through. Torches on the terrace’s balustrade guttered as the breeze tugged them this way and that, some of them smoking black.
