‘You look even better with spectacles than you do without them,’ he replied, refusing to flinch under the lash of her tongue.
‘And you, my lord,’ she said, removing them with a haughty flourish, ‘look much better without them.’
‘You flatter me, ma’am.’
‘No, do I? I beg your pardon. I didn’t mean to.’
‘Still way up in the boughs, I see. Isn’t it time you came down?’
‘To your level? Heaven forbid. I fear I should be trampled on.’ Tucking her folded glasses into her reticule, she turned away, heading once again for the supper room.
Rayne’s own brand of cynicism would, at times, have been hard to beat, but this woman’s meteoric put-downs would have silenced most hardened cynics. He followed on, more slowly, watching the swing of her hips under the charcoalgrey beaded half-dress over pale grey satin, the low-cut back and peach-skin shoulders, the long wisps of moonlight-blonde hair escaping from her chignon to curve into her graceful neck. Needled, curious, perplexed, he followed her to the array of food, not sumptuous, but plentiful. But it was not easy to identify the tiny pieces of something, the squares of something else, rolls and balls garnished with greenery, jellies and glasses, and a confusion of cakes.
Without a word, he took the plate from her hand, placed a selection of bite-sized delicacies upon it and gave it back to her, poured two glasses of lemonade and bade her follow him. ‘This way,’ he said, as if he could sense her relief. He found a vacant sofa beside a table and waited for her to be seated before he asked, ‘May I?’
She glanced at the space beside her as if to estimate how much of it he would need, then she nodded, refusing to meet his eyes, taking the lemonade from him with a mechanical ‘thank you’, and placing it on the table. ‘Is this all for me?’ she said, looking at the plate. ‘Where’s yours?’
‘I wondered if we might share it,’ he said, watching for her reaction.
She made a small involuntary move backwards as if trying to steel herself for something very unpleasant. ‘I have suddenly lost my appetite,’ she said. ‘And anyway, such a gesture would be taken to mean that I have accepted you as a close friend, which is very far from the truth, my lord. If it were not for the fact that you are known to be on good terms with my sisters, I would not be sitting here with you like this. Certainly not sharing a supper plate. Mr Waverley usually does this for me.’
‘I accept what you say entirely, Miss Boyce. So may I suggest that, for the time being, you pretend that I am Mr Waverley?’
Dipping her head with a genteel snort of laughter, she turned her dark grey eyes to him at last. ‘Lord Rayne, my imagination is in perfect working order, I assure you, but there are some things it would find quite impossible to tackle. That is one of them.’ As she spoke, her eyes found the black frockcoat and white breeches of her friend, resting there affectionately. ‘Mr Waverley’s manners are faultless,’ she said. Picking up one of the tiny squares of pastry, she placed it absently in her mouth, still watching until, catching her companion’s amused expression, she realised what she had done. Instantly, she stopped chewing and blinked.
‘There, now. That wasn’t difficult, was it? Having vented some of your spleen, you’ve found your appetite.’
Swinging her head away, she finished the mouthful. ‘Fudge!’ she snapped. ‘I have not vented my spleen, as you put it, in years. In fact, I’m not sure where it is, so long has it been unvented. Here, have one of those. They’re quite good. But don’t take it as a peace offering. You may be the bees’ knees with my sisters, my lord, but if they knew what I know, they’d not be so convinced that you’re as gentlemanly as all that.’
‘Yet you have agreed to sit and share supper with me,’ he said, taking two of the tasty pieces.
‘Don’t be bamboozled by that,’ she said.
‘Why not? Is it not true?’
‘Because,’ she said, taking another piece and studying it, ‘there is a limit to the length of time I can stay blue-devilled, that’s why. I have rarely had reason to hold a grudge against anyone, so I lack the practice. I suppose it’s a form of laziness, but I find the effort not worth the reward. I might have been able to keep up a high dudgeon for a few more weeks if there were not so many people known to both of us who would wonder why I insisted on being so uncivil to you. Which I could.’ The piece disappeared into her mouth at last.
‘Oh, I have absolutely no doubt of that, Miss Boyce.’
‘But,’ she munched, ‘I should find it so tedious to explain. Naturally, I can accept that men of your…experience…may become confused from time to time about who to bestow good manners on, and who not to. That’s not the problem. The problem is that when one is on the receiving end of shabby behaviour, one tends to take it personally. If I’d known you had such an aversion to women like me, my lord, I would never have ventured near the parade ground yesterday. Not in a million years. And had I known that your tolerance extends only to women of my sisters’ sort, pretty, gregarious women, you may be sure I would have taken my pupils round to the back entrance. So, you see, it’s not so much that I’ve decided to forgive and forget how insulting you can be towards some women and mannerly towards others, depending on who is watching, but that I really cannot be bothered with people of your sort. The world is so full of really interesting people to spend time with, don’t you agree?’
Taking the glass of lemonade, she downed half the contents in one go, replaced the glass on the table and, withdrawing her spectacles from her reticule, replaced them on her nose. Then, treating him to an innocent wide-eyed stare, she rose. ‘Thank you for sharing your supper with me,’ she said sweetly, and walked away to join a group, linking her arm through one of them like a favourite niece.
Leaning back, Rayne let out a silent whistle like a head of steam being released. ‘Whew!’ he murmured. ‘The lady is certainly not stuck for words, is she? I think there may be more work to be done here, old chap, before this episode can be closed.’
Chapter Three
Creamy white pages danced with shadows. Hovering like a merlin, the loaded quill point swooped, squeaking on the line, eager to tell what it knew.
Even George Brummell himself would have approved of the cravat, spotless white, perfectly creased against the bronzed outdoor skin around the jaw, touching the dark curl of hair before the ears. One could not tell whether the hair had been combed or not, but the way it rumpled on to the forehead might have taken others some time to achieve. A broad forehead, straight brows, deep watchful eyes, still mocking, a nose neither hooked nor bulbous, a wide mouth without fullness, but showing perfect teeth. Taller than me, for a change, and, I suspect, no padding upon the shoulders. My sisters say he boxes, shoots, fences and hunts, and this I can believe for he has the athlete’s grace and assuredness, thighs like a wrestler’s under skintight white breeches, well-shaped calves. The tables were turned, this time. I was amongst people I knew and liked, at ease and not inclined to sham a confusion I did not feel. I see no need to like him for their sakes, but I will say that, as far as looks go, he must be called a Nonpareil. Would that his manners matched his appearance. My sisters must see quite another side to him, which makes one wonder which side is the right side and which the reverse. Outwardly, some semblance of politeness must be maintained, I suppose. In Miss Austen, for
