He might not be entirely certain what she wanted to say to him, but he had something to discuss with her. He was planning to ask her what she’d meant—at the Cranberrys’—when she’d said he had no idea of the scandal she was capable of.
Those blasted words had haunted him all week.
He’d told himself the next morning that he would stay away from her. No more balls, no more lurking near pillars, no more cornering her in corridors. But far from being successful at it, he’d become even worse, following her around each day.
She never seemed to be doing much, just errands, and shopping, and an odd choice of reading once.
But each morning, he found himself scanning the pages of the Times, half-expecting—no, dreading—to see her name splashed there in some sordid column about ruined debutantes and broken engagements.
There had been nothing.
For a full sennight.
But instead of feeling relief, he’d felt suspicion.
He knew she was up to something.
So tonight, instead of merely following her about, he’d finally given in to the impulse that had been gnawing at him. He would ask her plainly what she was planning.
Even if she refused to tell him outright, he suspected that he would be able to tell from the look in her eyes whether he needed to worry. Her eyes were so expressive.
Damn it. He shouldn’t be thinking about her eyes. He muttered another curse under his breath and scuffed his boot again in the dust, wondering—again—what the devil he was doing out here at midnight, waiting for a woman who, by all accounts, didn’t want him anywhere near her.
The faint creak of a door broke through his thoughts.
And then…she appeared, bolting through the back door, actually, skirts hitched, dark hair gleaming faintly in the moonlight. Her were cheeks flushed and her eyes darted over the courtyard until they landed on him.
“Lord Pembroke,” she said breathlessly, and the sound of her voice did something to his insides that he didn’t want to examine too closely.
He straightened, tugging his cuffs as though to mask how fast his pulse had jumped at the sight of her. “My lady,” he said with forced calm.
She dropped her skirts and strode toward him, her hands on her hips. “You’re early,” she accused.
“You’re late,” he replied evenly. “And this is a strange place for a meeting.”
Her lips curved into a wry smile. “I couldn’t very well have you knock on the door and ask for me.”
That startled a faint laugh out of him, though he caught himself quickly. “You’re right, I suppose,” Jason murmured. “Though I must admit, I’m somewhat surprised that you asked me to meet you.”
Her gaze sharpened. “Yes, well, I must ask you a question. And I wasn’t entirely sure that you intended to continue following me about town.”
Jason inclined his head. “I merely?—”
First, she held up a hand to stop him, then she crossed her arms on her chest and met his gaze. “Do you or do you not plan to continue watching me?”
He blinked rapidly before narrowing his eyes on her. “Why does that question make me think that I should?”
“I need to know,” she told him.
He drew himself up, squared his shoulders, and met her gaze directly. “Fine then. Allow me to ask a question of my own.”
She seemed to consider that for a moment before nodding. “Very well.”
“I want to know,” he said, his voice low and even, “what you meant when you told me I had no idea the scandal you’re capable of.”
For just a beat, she blinked at him. Then her lips curved into a sharp little smile. “Why do you want to know?” she asked archly.
Jason hesitated, then said the first truth that came to mind. “Would you believe me,” he said slowly, “if I said I was worried about you?”
