“How are you feeling this afternoon?” he asked, clasping her in a fatherly embrace that made her stiffen inwardly.
“Much better, I thank you.”
“Jane told me you had a bit too much to drink last night.”
Her laugh was brittle. “Not at all. Two glasses are always my limit. Strangely, I was ill even before I tasted a drop.” And apparently, she’d shared a bottle of wine with Mr. Worthington inside the coach last night.
“Ah.” His smile held no surprise. “Different drinks affect different constitutions.”
“Indeed,” she murmured, desperate to step back from his scrutiny.
He settled into a black leather chair, the kind of seat that belonged to a man accustomed to power. The faint gleam of gold at his cuff and the cut of his fine suit only emphasized the authority he wore as easily as his title.
“And what plans have you and my daughter for the day?” He asked.
“She wishes to visit the dressmaker for her gown.”
“Splendid,” he declared. “The wedding approaches quickly. It is wise not to delay.”
Her lips curved faintly. “Just so.” She paused, noticing his attire more carefully. His cravat was perfectly tied, his coat brushed and fitted, the look of a man bound for Society rather than leisure. “Do you have engagements today as well, my lord?”
He chuckled, eyes gleaming. “The boys and I shall attend a boxing match.”
The boyswas his favored phrase for the endless cousins and nephews that shadowed him. Regina forced brightness into her voice. “A boxing match? There has not been one in our area for years.”
“That is because nobody has had the intelligence to organize the event until now,” Harold replied smoothly. “But one of my nephews has secured it. Enough men are willing to fight now. We shall see matches monthly, I should think.”
His tone was pleasant, but Regina shivered nonetheless. There was something in the way he spoke ofthe boys, of thesegatherings, that always unsettled her—as though beneath the amiable charm lurked a darker current she could not name.
She gasped softly. “That often? How wonderful.”
Her reaction surprised even herself. Regina was not like most girls of theton, who giggled over ballads and embroidery. For years, her father had raised her as his shadow—a tomboy who ran wild, climbed fences, rode bareback, and cheered for sport rather than curtsying to it. Only in recent years had her mother pressed her into the mold of a lady, teaching her the endless rules of etiquette, of measured smiles and graceful steps. So very dull compared to the wind in her hair and the pounding of hooves on open ground.
The earl’s silence drew her attention back. Harold was watching her, his gaze narrowed, assessing. He was a man who did his best thinking in silence, and the weight of that silence pressed heavily on Regina until she shifted under it. Why was he staring so intently?
“Tell me, Regina,” he said at last, voice mild. “Do you still attend sporting events as you did when you were younger?”
She gave a nervous laugh. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m a lady now.”
“True,” he said. “But that should not stop you.”
“It does when I think about giving my mother palpitations. She is vehemently against my indulging in any of my old habits.”
He grinned, but his eyes gleamed. “And what if she did not know?”
“Mother always hears through gossip,” Regina replied with a wry twist of her lips. “Then she scolds Father for encouraging me. Poor man.”
“Your poor father, indeed.” Harold leaned back, as if savoring the exchange. “He must miss his little tomboy daughter.”
Before she could answer, the bell rang sharply, announcing a caller. “That must be Worthington,” Harold said with satisfaction.
Her heart plummeted like a stone to the bottom of the sea. “Mr. Worthington?” Her voice nearly cracked. “He is…going with you too?”
“Of course, my dear.” Harold’s tone was almost jovial. “He is now one of my boys.”
Panic seized her chest. She could not face him. Not here. Not with Harold present. “Th-then I should leave you to your guests,” she stammered. “I ought to see what is delaying Jane.” Without waiting for the earl’s answer, she turned toward the doorway…and nearly collided with the man himself.
Wayne Worthington filled the threshold, his height and broad shoulders blotting out the light behind him. His gaze caught hers instantly, and her breath lodged in her throat. He was dressed impeccably in a dark-brown coat and trousers, a black waistcoat emphasizing the width of his chest. And his sharp, emerald, searching eyes snared her in place.
