First, he selected tan-coloured trousers, cut close enough to satisfy fashion without appearing too dandified. Then he chose a dark navy coat, perfectly fitted and too narrow at the waist for his liking. His Hessians had been polished to a level that bordered upon satire. His neckcloth he tied not in his preferred plain military style, but in a more fashionable arrangement that O’Malley, who had learned these matters from some valetry of his own, referred to as “mathematical.” Arch mistrusted any style that required mathematics and knots simultaneously, but he endured it.
When at last he stood before the looking-glass, he regarded his reflection with resigned dislike. He looked, he thought, exactly like the sort of man a mother would send into Hyde Park for matrimonial purposes.
O’Malley spoke from behind him. “Sir,” he said with sardonic serenity, “Lady Upton will be pleased.”
“That is the most discouraging thing you have ever said to me.”
O’Malley bowed.
By the time the curricle drew up before Sir Percival’s house, Arch’s humour had improved only slightly. His father’s horses, at least, were prime. The day itself had turned out tolerably fine, with high pale clouds and a brightness in the air that promised no rain. In consequence, London had come abroad. Carriages rolled; riders displayed themselves. Nursemaids and children took the healthier air beneath the eye of servants on the green. It was precisely the sort of afternoon his mother adored, because it placed all walks of society upon a single stage.
A servant admitted him almost before he had knocked. Miss Vale, he was told, would be down directly. Arch waited in the hall, hat in hand, and told himself with some determination that this was no more than duty.
Then Francesca appeared at the turn of the stair, and duty became inconveniently ornamental.
She wore lavender. It was not a colour he would ever have thought to describe, let alone remember, and yet it struck him at once with unexpected force. The gown was a day dress, simple enough in its construction to be respectable, yet cut with excellent taste, the colour setting off the warmth in her complexion and the brightness of her eyes so perfectly that he felt, for one absurd instant, as though the whole notion of spring had been condensed into the woman now before him. Her hat was smart rather than extravagant, trimmed with a darker ribbon that drew the eye very precisely towards her neck. Everything about her was composed, practical, and lovely.
Arch bowed. “Miss Vale.”
“Major Manners,” she said, descending the last few steps. “I am told you have been pressed into service.”
“Your obedient servant.”
A smile touched her mouth. “Then I fear I am an unwelcome duty.”
His mouth twitched with a hint of a smile. “I would never say so.”
She reached the bottom stair and paused just near enough that he caught the faint scent of violets or something like them, though he distrusted himself entirely in floral matters and therefore refused to name it.
“Is all this strictly necessary,” she asked, taking up her gloves from the small table, “to display ourselves in a park?”
“Indeed.”
“How peculiar.”
“You have coined the Season perfectly.”
“Ah, but this is the season before the Season.
Arch laughed before he could prevent it.
That earned him a brief, satisfied look, as if she had set out to summon precisely that sound and was pleased to find herself capable of it.
“You should do that more often.”
He escorted her to the curricle, handed her up, and took his place beside her. The horses stepped briskly into the street, and for a few moments they drove in companionable silence, which was, Arch thought, one of the strangest developments of the last fortnight. He had not expected Miss Francesca Vale to become a person with whom silence might be shared rather than endured.
She looked ahead as they drove, one hand resting lightly on the side of the curricle, the other keeping a firm hold upon her bonnet ribbons when the air freshened.
“Had you intended some other occupation for your afternoon?” she asked.
“I had intended to visit Manton’s Shooting Gallery.”
She turned towards him. “You wished to pit your skill?”
“I wished to hit something that would not answer back.”
“That is an alarming confession.”
