you to admit you didn’t recall meeting me, rather than offer me the polite lie. Although I do dance delightfully.’
She’d laughed then, the charming sound of her merriment defusing the rest of his irritation. ‘I expect you will remember this meeting! But I shall certainly understand if you do not ask me to dance when next we meet.’
She really didn’t care whether or not he wanted to associate with her. Surprised anew, and intrigued, he said, ‘An honest female who disdains flattery and says exactly what she thinks? On the contrary! I shall add you with Miss Lattimar to the very short list of eligible females with whom I dance or converse.’
‘You generally preferring, of course, ineligible females,’ she’d tossed back.
Laughing in spite of himself, he nodded. ‘And now you are trying to make me blush at my scandalous reputation.’
‘Not at all. I hope to be scandalous myself, some day. Ah, Miss Lattimar, I believe we’re about to be overtaken by a host of your admirers. Sadly, I fear you will have to cede your place, Lord Theo.’
‘Until the next time, then, ladies,’ he said, tipping his hat and riding off as the group of gentlemen Miss Henley had spied approaching arrived to surround Miss Lattimar.
His interest piqued by a female who dared treat him in such a radically unconventional manner, he’d been drawn to seek her out each time they’d chanced to meet at various entertainments. And once he knew to expect a different sort of commentary from her, he soon recognised the humour that softened the edge of her sharp remarks, as well as the keen intelligence that prompted her pointed, unconventional but absolutely accurate observations on all manner of things. He was led ever further down the garden path, curious to hear what new, startling, unacceptable-to-society remarks she might put forth—and what new, blighting comments about his character she might utter.
And then there was that unexpected but unmistakable sensual attraction. The intensity of her hazel-eyed gaze, the sense of barely controlled energy beneath the outward guise of a demure, properly behaved young female, and full lips that were an invitation to sin… She called to him on a physical level as powerfully as a fêted beauty like Lady Belinda.
Recalling her recommendation that he take up a career as a Royal Mail coachman, he laughed softly. That humour faded as he went on to wonder just how loud a peal her mama would ring over her for dismissing Mr Null. Fortunately, he was reasonably certain that no matter how roundly she was abused, the pressure applied by her mama would be more likely to push her into finally declaring that independence she kept telling him she meant to seek than to capitulation and acceptance of the numbing sterility of an arranged marriage.
It really was a shame that society offered so few options for intelligent, clever women. He could easily see Emma Henley taking a seat in Parliament, arguing for the causes about which she’d told him she’d been writing letters.
He shifted uncomfortably. Recalling her desire to do something important, to make a difference, touched too closely on the festering sore deep within which, though covered over by a dressing of busyness and society’s acclaim, had never completely healed.
Although they were not nearly as hemmed in by rules and conventions as females, the opportunities for well-born young men to ‘do something important’ were also limited.
As a younger son, he would never inherit the responsibility for managing his family’s various estates or providing for the welfare of their tenants. Though he enjoyed books, he felt no call to retreat into scholarship, and though he dabbled in investments, a gentleman never dirtied his hands dealing with money. Nor had he any taste for engaging in the push and pull of politics that so fascinated Miss Henley.
Only one thing fired in him the sort of enthusiasm he glimpsed in that lady and it was as impossible a career for a gentleman as standing for Parliament was for a woman.
Sighing, he glanced down at the writing paper on the desk before him. Almost of their own accord, his hands set aside the pen and inkwell and rummaged in the drawer for a pencil.
Quickly he sketched the silhouette of a lady bent over her side saddle, urging on her galloping horse. He added hash marking and shading, the bend of the delicate feather in her riding hat against the rush of wind. The stance, and the hat, obscured her face, but he had no trouble envisaging it: the long, pale oval, rather prominent, determined chin, the unexpected sensual lips. And those eyes! What a transformation they underwent, when she escaped from the conventional trivialities of social conversation!
He ought to do a sketch just of her face, to portray the fire that illumined those eyes once she began to speak about something that truly interested her. How they lit up her face, changing it from forgettable to arresting! Better still, he should do a study in oils, to be able to capture their mesmerising gold-green hue.
Adding a few more quick pencil strokes, he finished his equestrienne sketch and studied it, nodding his satisfaction.
One more useless skill I possess, about which you don’t yet know, he told her silently. Else you might recommend that, should I lose my fortune, I take up work as a portrait painter.
Restoring the pencil, quill and unused paper to its place in the drawer, he rose, sketch in hand, and walked towards the door. He’d enjoy a fine dinner and then, ‘timid soul’ that he was, avoid the society entertainments he’d meant to attend in favour of a few pleasant rounds of cards and brandy.
Pausing before the fireplace, he gave the sketch one more glance, smiling again at the vibrant energy that was Emma Henley. But it wouldn’t be wise to subject himself to the enquiry and abuse that would result, should any of the other members discover him carrying around a sketch of a society lady.
With regret, he tossed the paper into the fire and strode out of the room.
Pausing in the doorway to the card room, Theo surveyed the occupants, looking for a group that would provide both stimulating play and agreeable company. Spotting a friend from his Oxford days, Theo strolled over.
‘Ready for a game, Kensworth?’ he asked.
‘Ah, Lord Theo, just the man I hoped to see,’ Kensworth said, gesturing him to a seat. ‘I’m about to head out, but I did want a quiet word with you.’
Theo felt a flicker of concern. ‘Is something wrong? An illness in your family?’
‘No, nothing of that sort. It’s…something else entirely.’ Looking suddenly uncomfortable, Kensworth hesitated, sipping from the glass of port beside him.
‘Well, out with it,’ Theo said, both amused and curious. ‘Have I flirted too blatantly with a lady you covet? Bought a horse you had your eye on?’
‘No, this is about…your welfare. I saw you this morning, galloping in Hyde Park with Miss Henley. Just the two of you, no groom anywhere in sight. Now, I’ll grant you that she appears to be a fine horsewoman, but I do wonder what else you see in her. Plain as a doorpost, with a tongue caustic enough to strip the varnish off your carriage.’
Theo managed to choke down a heated defence of Emma Henley’s looks and wit. Forcing himself back into the role of careless courtier, he said in a bored tone, ‘She is clever for all that. One never knows what she will say. I find her amusing.’
‘You’d
