To her surprise, he reached out to touch her hand—no, to move her fan away from her face so he could see her better? Before she could fully process that, Barbara was aware of the warmth which crept up her hand. Oh, no wonder; the Scotsman wasn’t wearing gloves. Another indication he didn’t quite understand social mores…and one Barbara found she didn’t mind.
“Miss Fokette, I find myself completely distraught.”
Sir Kenneth hadn’t released her hand. “Oh? We cannot have that, sir.”
“Aye, I am distraught at the thought of missing a dance with ye.Pleasesay ye will reserve the next one for me?”
Barbara told herself it was stupid to feel disappointed. The rake clearly had practiced such a line and charming grin—perhaps in front of a looking glass, perhaps in front of a dozen other women—and clearly knew nothing about her. Still, she managed to arrange her expression into a polite smile as she tugged her hand away.
He didn’t release it.
In fact his hold on her tightened, and all she accomplished was pulling himcloser, as he stepped nearer her chair along the wall.
“Unfortunately, sir, I do not dance.”
It should have been enough. After all, theTonknew Baron Fokette’s second daughter was quiet, intellectual, and broken.
Sir Kenneth Fraser, apparently, did not know. He didn’t release her hand, either. Which was quite a surprise when he plopped himself down in the seat beside herstill holding her hand.“Well, that is fine. We have more time to talk sitting here then. What were ye looking at, up there on the ceiling?”
Barbara was only half paying attention as she tried to yank her hand away. “I doubt you are interested, sir. I told you I do not dance.”
“Aye, ye said. I dinnae mind.” Tucked in the space between their chairs, where no one could see, he’d begun to rub small circles on her palm with his thumb. Small, inexplicable circles. “Was it the frescos, lass?” He inclined his gaze upwards. “Or the cornication?”
Cornication?
Narrowing her eyes thoughtfully, Barbara studied the Scotsman. He’dnoticedher studying the ceiling and guessed at the object of her study?
Giving up on retrieving her hand, she tested the man. “The cornices?”
He was still peering upward. “Aye. A vaulted chamber, full of fornices, is called a fornication, aye?”
The way he drew out the wordfornicationwith those delicious-looking lips, the quick glance he’d flicked her way, the way the dimple deepened for just a moment as he smirked…all told Barbara he’d been trying to shock her with a wicked word.
Well, she wasn’t one to back down from a challenge. With a sniff, she straightened, trying to ignore the fact the touch of his thumb was making her go all gooey inside.
“I hardly think the fornices to fornication connection is enough to link cornice tocornication. Your argument is not etymologically sound, since the actual word is fornix, not fornice.”
Slowly, he turned to her, one brow raised…was he impressed she’d met his challenge?
She raised a brow right back at him, calling his bluff. Two could speak of silliness. “More modern art is not my forte, but I would guess thecorniceswere completed in the last century.”
Sir Kenneth’s lips curled wryly. “And they were commissioned by the Earl, not his Countess.” The wink he sent her said that he’d seen the lewd parts of the satyr.
Most of a satyr’s parts are lewd.
True.
Inspired to meet his challenge, Barbara raised her own brow. “And that the Earl was not a particularly…largeman.”
Sir Kenneth blinked, understandably shocked at her insinuation—although Barbara knew, if her mother were to ask, she could claim to be speaking of the bygone Earl of Standish’s height—then threw back his head to laugh.
The laugh made her feelgood, and she found herself smiling with genuine delight.
“Cousin Errol is far more interested in ancient work?—”
“Cousin—och, the Earl of Standish’s name is Errol, aye?” Sir Kenneth was still chuckling. “Ye’re his cousin?”
That’s right, he said he’d asked about her. “My mother is his cousin on his mother’s side. They grew up close, since he was not expected to inherit—” She bit off her words, wondering if she was blathering too much.
