“And if none of the three of them suits, Tilly? What then?” There wasn’t a thing wrong with Lady Anne, or Miss Fitzjohn, or even Lady Cressida, by most gentlemen’s reckoning.
But none of them was Mathilda Templeton.
To his surprise, the color drained from her cheeks, and she drew away from him.
“Tilly? What’s the matter?”
“I can’t…I can’t go on with this matchmaking scheme after tonight. I never should have agreed to it in the first place. With the way scandal seems to chase the Templetons, the risk of shame to my family is simply too great.”
“Ah. Your family has had some bad luck, haven’t they?” He let her go, his hand falling away from her face. “The Prestwick family knows all about bad luck.”
Her brows drew together, but she said only, “Shall we? Lady Anne awaits, my lord.”
He shook his head. “No.”
“No? You won’t dance with Lady Anne?”
“I won’t dance with any of them, until I’ve first danced with you, Tilly.”
“Me? Why should you wish to dance with me?”
She looked so amazed, a startled laugh fell from his lips. Did she really not see it? Could she not look into his eyes, and see her own reflection there? It seemed impossible she didn’t know how alluring she was, but he said nothing, only held out his hand to her. “Because you’re my friend, are you not?”
She blinked up at him, her eyes so wide he thought he might fall into them, but then a shy smile crossed her lips. “I’ve never had a gentleman friend before.”
He caught her hand in his, and raised it to his lips. “Then I suppose I’ll be your first.”
ChapterEleven
“Lord Wyle truly is the most engaging gentleman I’ve ever met. Did you not find him engaging this evening, Tilly?”
“Oh, yes, terribly engaging, indeed. Quite a study in gallantry.” Tilly was lying on her back on her bed, her eyes wide open, and had been for some time despite the late hour, and not only because Harriett had been gushing about Lord Wyle since they returned from Lord Colville’s ball hours ago.
Though admittedly, the gushing didn’t help.
“He’s so handsome, as well!” Harriett let out a sigh. “Have you ever seen a more handsome gentleman than Lord Wyle, Tilly?”
Had she? No one came to mind. No, she couldn’t think of a single gentleman more handsome than Lord Wyle. He had those lovely dark eyes, after all. Deep, velvety dark eyes that put one in mind of the richest chocolate—
No, wait. Lord Wyle had blue eyes, didn’t he? The velvety dark eyes belonged to—
Why, no one. No one at all. No one worth giving a second thought, at any rate, and so, she wouldn’t. No, indeed. Not a single second thought. Only—
“Tilly? Don’t you think Lord Wyle is exceptionally handsome?”
“Oh, yes, of course! One can’t fault Lord Wyle’s appearance.”
“He’s ever so gallant, as well. Why, I can’t think of a single gentleman in London with more bewitching manners.” Harriett paused, then asked, “You do think my brother will approve of Lord Wyle, do you not, Tilly?”
Was there a thread of anxiety in Harriett’s voice? That seemed odd, given Lord Wyle was what every brother must want for a beloved sister. “I daresay Lord Fairmont will be—”
“Lord Wyle has such a keen eye for fashion, too!” Harriett rushed on, any trace of apprehension lost in a girlish sigh. “Did you notice how perfectly turned out he was this evening? He quite eclipsed every other gentleman at the ball, did he not?”
“He did, indeed. I’ve never seen a gentleman with such a…such a…” Tilly frowned at the dark ceiling above her. What had Lord Wyle been wearing this evening? For the life of her, she couldn’t recall a single item of the man’s clothing. “A gentleman with such a flawlessly starched cravat.”
Heavens, what a perfectly ridiculous thing to say, but all she could come up with regarding Lord Wyle’s dress this evening was a vague notion that he’d been dressed very much as every other gentleman had been.
But it wouldn’t do to say so to Harriett, who’d only become more smitten with Lord Wyle as the first few weeks of the season had come to an end. As for his lordship, he appeared equally smitten with Harriett. Their courtship was blossoming right before theton’s eyes, and would almost certainly culminate in a betrothal before the end of the season, if not sooner.
