“Lord Derrick never gossips. It’s one of his most irritating qualities, I assure you, and Lord Huntington will never know. He’s disappeared with Honora, and she told me you’ve jilted him in any case, so what does it matter what he thinks?”
Iris’s mouth fell open. “She told you I jilted Lord Huntington?” For pity’s sake, Honora hadn’t wasted any time with that bit of gossip, had she?
“Of course she did. She tells me everything. Wise decision, Miss Somerset, to jilt Huntington. Who wants to marry a dry stick like him?” He didn’t give her a chance to reply. “As for Lady Hadley’s guests, we’ll go around to the other side of the house. No one will see us there.”
Iris bit her lip. She had no business tearing about the lawn like a wild hellion and scandalizing Charlotte’s guests, but she was the one who’d suggested a race, and Lord Wrexley seemed quite keen on the idea. She didn’t wish to offend him by refusing, and it was just a little race, after all. No one would see them on the other side of the house. What was the harm in it?
And it wasn’t as if she’d got anywhere doing what she was told. She’d worn the gowns and danced the quadrilles and practiced the pianoforte until her fingers bled. She’d followed the rules, but no one had ever bothered to explain she was just as likely to be punished as rewarded for her efforts.
Well, she’d had her punishment. Didn’t she deserve a reward?
Lord Wrexley leaned closer to whisper in her ear. “That only leaves me, and I swear I won’t breathe a word of it.”
He was a devil, whispering in her ear, tempting her with a moment of freedom.
“Come, Miss Somerset. Don’t you want to run?”
Oh, I do. I do want to run.
Chapter Nine
Miss Somerset had been wrong to try and kiss him in Lady Fairchild’s garden. She’d been wrong to eavesdrop on his argument with Lady Beaumont, wrong to let Lord Wrexley escort her to Hampshire, and certainly wrong to devote all her attention to the scoundrel this morning.
Finn’s jaw tightened. She’d been wrong to jilt him.
Twice.
In short, she’d been wrong about everything, with one notable exception. She’d been right about her friend. Lady Honorawouldmake an ideal marchioness.
“How does your horse do, Lord Huntington?”
“My horse?” Finn groped blindly for the last two minutes of their conversation, but aside from a stubborn image of blue eyes that insisted on lingering in his head, his mind was a blank. Had they been talking about his horse?
She gave him a sunny smile. “Oh, I’m sure it’s nothing, but you mentioned yesterday he’d been favoring a leg on your journey to Hampshire.”
Yes, he had said that, hadn’t he? Right before he burst into Miss Somerset’s bedchamber and caught her at her wash basin, with damp tendrils of fair hair curling about her flushed cheeks, and silvery droplets of water clinging to her skin.
“Is he quite all right, then?”
Finn dragged his attention back to Lady Honora. “He is. It was just a loose shoe. You’re kind to enquire, my lady.”
She was always kind, to everyone. It was her distinguishing characteristic, and it was true kindness, not the affectation of it so common among ladies of theton. One had only to look at her to see it, for every line in her face bespoke sincerity.
She was everything he wanted in his marchioness, and by some miracle every obstacle preventing a betrothal between them had vanished. If he wanted to initiate a courtship, this was the moment to do it. They were alone in a garden, the sun bright over their heads. Her sweet brown eyes were fixed on him with a look of admiration that could be tipped over into adoration with only a modest effort on his part, and he…
He was fantasizing about drops of water clinging to the neck of a lady who’d jilted him.
Twice.
“I’m relieved to hear it. Do you intend to ride much while you’re here? I haven’t ridden anywhere but on the promenade for ages now, and I confess riding in Hampshire quite intimidates me.”
“I’d be pleased to escort you.” He smiled down at her. He’d always favored brown eyes, and Lady Honora’s eyes were just the right shade of brown, that is, not too dark or too light, too lively or too dim, and without that troublesome spark hidden in their dark blue depths.
No, not blue, damn it. Brown. Lady Honora’s eyes werebrown.
Every other gentleman in London might turn poet over Miss Somerset’s sparkling blue eyes if they wished, but he wasn’t moved by them. Now he thought of it, the placid expression in Lady Honora’s eyes had been the reason he’d chosen her over Miss Somerset from the start. Something about that blue spark made him uneasy. One never knew what mayhem a spark might lead to. Burns. Conflagrations. The fire that burned half of bloody London to ashes had started with a single spark, for God’s sake.
Sparks weren’t to be trusted.
