“Then I’ll state it now, shall I? I agree with Lady Harriett.”
“Do you indeed, Wyle?” Kit murmured. “How shocking.”
“Alas, my lord, it’s too late to state your opinion now. You had your chance, and you squandered it. I will hear from Lord Prestwick instead.” Lady Fosberry turned to him. “Is the pleasantest thing about a picnic the lounging and syllabub, my lord, or do you maintain, as Mathilda and I do, that a vigorous walk in the fresh air and warm sunshine is the entire point of the thing?”
He despised lounging—already his arse was numb from trying to sit still on this blasted blanket, and syllabub was a vile pudding. It tasted like cream-flavored air.
But if he’d still been courting Lady Harriett, he never would have said so. He would have proclaimed an undying passion for lounging and syllabub, because what was courtship, after all, but a series of pretty lies?
But hewasn’tcourting Lady Harriett any longer. He was courting Mathilda Templeton, and with her, there was no need to lie, or put himself into the same category as a toady like Wyle, with that ingratiating smirk on his lips.
For the first time since his call on Lady Fosberry yesterday, the tightness in his chest eased, and he was able to draw a deep, cleansing breath of fresh air into his lungs.
“Well, Lord Prestwick?” Lady Fosberry tapped the back of his hand with a gloved finger. “Your answer?”
He gave her his most charming grin. “I can’t imagine this could have caused such an argument between you all, when the answer is patently obvious.”
“Is it, indeed? Do tell us your opinion, my lord.” Tilly had edged closer—so close a fold of her skirts had fallen over his pantaloons, and God help him, helikedit. He wanted her eyes, and all her attention, on him.
“Why, just look, Miss Mathilda.” He waved his hand around, taking in the glorious blue sky above them, so rare in London during the early spring, and the lush carpet of green beneath them. “Who could prefer a spoonful of syllabub to a ramble in such perfect weather as this?”
A brief silence fell, but just as he began to fear he’d agreed rather too vehemently, Tilly let out a surprised laugh. “Well said, my lord.”
And just like that, whatever misgivings he had drifted away like petals on the breeze.
“Indeed, Lord Prestwick, most sensible of you.” Lady Fosberry gave him an approving smile, her eyes dancing. “Though I must confess I quite adore syllabub, myself.”
“I do, as well.” Tilly rose to her feet and dusted the stray bits of grass from her skirts. “Don’t eat it all, if you please, as I intend to indulge myself when we return.”
“Return?” Euphemia Templeton had been rummaging in the hamper, but now she looked up. “Where are you going, Tilly?”
“Lord Prestwick and I are going for a wander, of course.” She reached down, offering her hand to him. “Shall we, my lord?”
It was an odd gesture— ladies did not offer their hands to gentlemen —yet it had been done with such a natural friendliness, he couldn’t resist accepting. He reached up and clasped her fingers, his much larger palm swallowing them in one gulp, and allowed her to tug him to his feet.
He offered her his arm. “Where do you wish to wander?”
“Lady Fanshaw mentioned there’s a rose garden just past those trees there. It’s too early for roses, of course, but it looks like a pleasant walk, doesn’t it?”
“Perfectly pleasant, yes.”
Neither of them spoke as they made their way across the lawn toward the arbors visible just past a thick row of shrubbery, but there was nothing strained in it. Had he ever enjoyed a companionable silence with a lady before? If he had, he couldn’t recall it.
“Will you attend Lord Colville’s ball on Wednesday?” she asked at last.
“Yes, I suppose I must.” The threat of the endless round of balls, picnics and musical evenings in his future hung over him like a cloud, dimming his pleasure in the sunny day.
“You don’t sound pleased about it, my lord.”
“I don’t care much for balls.”
“No, neither do I. They’re dreadfully tedious.”
“I thought all young ladies were mad for balls.” But then, she wasn’t like any other young lady he’d ever known, so why wouldn’t she be different in this, as well?
She shrugged. “I daresay most young ladies are, but balls during the London season weren’t really meant for ladies like me.”
Ladies likeher? What did that mean? “I don’t understand. I would think you’d be as welcome at a ball as any other young lady.”
