“On the contrary,” he replied easily. “I find myself delightfully unprepared, which—where you are concerned—seems only fair.”
Behind her, Georgie released a breath that sounded suspiciously like a warning.
Theo muttered, low enough for only the duke to hear, “Here begins the ruin of us all.”
Lottie smiled, all bright danger and charm dipped in honey. “Shall we take a turn, Mr Deverell?”
He offered his arm at once. “With pleasure.”
She placed her hand upon his sleeve with regal composure and allowed him to guide her towards the gravel path.
As they set off, she cast a brief glance over her shoulder at her chaperones, and suppressed a smile. They could not stop her—after all, they were at a garden party, in full view of the company, and she was doing nothing whatsoever that could be called improper. A young lady might take a turn about the grounds with a gentleman as often as she pleased. How extremely satisfying.
They had scarcely gone ten paces before Lottie glanced sideways at Mr Deverell. “You appear remarkably cheerful for a man who was just informed of my return.”
“I am an optimist.”
“You are a menace.”
“Both may be true.”
She considered him, her fan tapping lightly against her palm. She supposed the best way to treat a man like Deverell was to take him down a notch. “You are pride incarnate, Mr Deverell. Pride in boots, pride in breeches—pride with an absolutely ridiculous cravat.”
He looked faintly pleased to her chagrin. “Ridiculous? This cravat required three mirrors and the silent despair of my valet.”
She raised an eyebrow and glanced at him sidelong as they strolled. “Then your valet has my deepest sympathy, sir.”
He chuckled. “I choose to take that as admiration, inelegantly expressed.”
“I assure you it was neither.”
He smiled. “Well, I do find it saves time,” he said easily, “to treat insult as praise.”
The man was a quick wit, and Lottie was quite enjoying the banter. “You possess a remarkable talent for delusion.”
“Thank you. I consider it one of my more charming qualities.”
She tilted her head. “Oh, do you keep a list, Mr Deverell?”
“But of course. Would you care to hear it?”
“Send it to me by post.”
He brightened. “I shall.”
“I will add it directly to the fire.”
He laughed genuinely, before turning them down a narrower gravel path bordered with hawthorn and pale primroses, still well within sight of the lawn and its scattered guests. Their pace had slowed without comment, and Lottie made no effort to quicken it.
It was not that she fancied the man. It was simply that most men bored her exceedingly, and Mr Deverell, by contrast, intrigued her—and that was a temptation she had never found easy to resist.
She thought, fleetingly and in a rare moment of good sense, of Lord Marchmont, who had once seemed equally irresistible. She had learnt her lesson, of course. She really ought to exercise more caution.
Instead, she leant a fraction nearer and said lightly, “You know, Mr Deverell, if we linger much longer, someone will begin to take notice.”
He glanced down at her with unmistakable amusement. “I should hope so. I believe thetonbegan talking the moment I bowed to you.”
She bit back a laugh. “Well, I do so hate to disappoint Society.”
