“That depends, Mr Deverell. Are you offering to join me?”
“Miss Tolliver, if memory serves, the last time we conspired, I ended up in an apple tree.”
“Yes.” She turned around to face him with a dazzling smile. “And wasn’t it wonderful?”
He did not answer immediately. Her voice, so quick and breathless with remembered mischief, caught him somewhere unpleasantly near the heart. It was as though, for the briefest instant, the careful veneer of straight-backed pose she wore slipped aside, and there she was again: the girl in the tree, the wicked imp with wind-tossed hair and plum wine on her lips.
Ithadbeen utterly wonderful, and he was damned glad she was back in Town.
In truth, he had been half inclined to quit England again— Paris, perhaps, now that everyone had begun speaking of it again, or Vienna, where half the continent seemed determined to dance itself back into order, or some agreeable ruin along the coast of Greece. Such impulses were not unusual for him. Jasper was aware that he possessed a restless temperament, which had carried him through Oxford with only moderate academic distinction, but considerable expertise at fencing, cricket, cards, and the sort of wagering which made his father sigh heavily at breakfast. Jasper privately believed it proved a talent for living.
The only member of his family who never scolded him for it was his sister. Penelope Deverell was ten and chronically delicate in health, though she was ferociously clever for her age, and firmly persuaded that most of England’s laws had been written by men of inferior intellect. She already declared herself an advocate for the improvement of women’s condition and had begun to write pamphlets. Jasper adored her, and also supplied her with the books she was not meant to read.
Miss Charlotte Tolliver might prove the only other young lady in England capable of exhausting him quite so thoroughly. If she intended to spend the Season orchestrating chaos, he could hardly allow her to do so alone.
“I recall the wine was abominable,” he said at last.
Miss Tolliver halted mid-step and turned upon him with scandalised indignation, walking backwards along the path with both hands clasped dramatically to her breast. “How dare you. That wine was produced upon the Tolliver estate.”
“Then I must write to your housekeeper with my sincerest apologies,” he replied gravely, “and perhaps the suggestion of a gentler grape.”
She narrowed her eyes. “It was plum. And you were drinking it straight from the bottle and declaring eternal devotion to whichever pagan deity first conceived of trees.”
“A goddess I continue to revere,” he said solemnly. “Particularly when those trees provide such admirable views.”
She laughed, properly this time, with her head tipped back, and the sound of it did something unspeakable to his ribs.
“Pray, cease walking backwards,” he said, smiling despite himself. “You may end as your sister once did.”
“My sister?”
“The former Miss Tolliver, on the memorable occasion she tripped backwards at Lady Malverne’s garden party and fell into the ornamental pond.”
“Ah yes,” she said, turning neatly and slipping her arm through his again. “A most fortunate accident. She secured herself a duke.”
He inclined his head. “Touché.”
They continued along the winding path, though prudence suggested they ought to have turned back long ago. The gravel curved away from the lawn and the cheerful murmur of guests, until Miss Tolliver paused beside a crumbling alcove half-hidden by ivy.
She glanced over her shoulder with an expression that might have been mischief—or invitation—or, most likely, both. “This part of the garden is not intended for guests.”
He hummed and lifted a brow. “Then we are precisely where we ought to be.”
He stepped nearer, maintaining his eyes upon hers. Her expression remained composed, her smile just wicked enough to make a man forget his name, and Jasper knew, with sudden certainty, that he simply must kiss her, or go insane.
She tilted her head as though daring him to try. “If you kiss me, Mr Deverell, I shall assume it is because my lips appear utterly irresistible. But you must not imagine it entitles you to anything further. I am not some wide-eyed debutante in search of a husband.”
He lifted both brows. “Nothing further at all?”
“No further claims upon my person. I shall not be bullied into matrimony—by you or any other charming rogue with quick wit and wandering hands.”
“Wandering hands? When have I ever exhibited such a thing?”
She gave a negligent shrug. “You placed one upon my thigh when we climbed that tree.”
“It was to steady you.”
“It was to steady yourself,” she returned. “And you did not remove it with any particular urgency.”
