silvery eyes rose and he felt an uncharacteristic heat prickle in his cheeks, throwing him back to the experience of standing before Nurse and a broken window, desperately trying to hide a cricket bat behind his back. He drew himself up. This was ridiculous.
‘Shall we...?’
‘You needn’t be embarrassed you have a mistress. Mrs Sturges assures me most dandies in London have mistresses.’
‘I’m not a dandy!’
‘Aren’t you? Oh, right, she said you were a Corinthian, not a dandy. Though there doesn’t appear to be a great difference between them and I suppose they have mistresses, too.’
‘There is quite a gulf between a dandy and a Corinthian,’ he replied, annoyed at her dismissive tones and momentarily distracted from the fact that the last thing he should be discussing with his betrothed was mistresses.
‘I suppose so, but they both are rather profligate and slavishly obsessed with things that matter to no one but themselves. There isn’t anything in that column I didn’t already know. Mrs Sturges told me all about you and your exploits.’
‘My exploits!’
‘That’s what Mrs Sturges called them. She is very Gothic and talks in capital letters. I rather thought she had exaggerated, but the columnist obviously shares her opinion. She told me all about midnight races and something called the Wild Hunt Club, if I remember correctly. Strange—you don’t seem like a dissolute rake. You certainly didn’t take advantage of me yesterday, though I suppose that is not quite a criterion since I can’t imagine anyone, even if he was a rake, making advances to every woman he comes across, especially if she isn’t in the least pretty. It would be quite wearying, wouldn’t it? Particularly if he already has a mistress and Mrs Sturges said that Lady Felton is an accredited beauty. In fact, by that logic rakes would be less likely to make advances to all and sundry, wouldn’t they?’
Hunter struggled to find a reasonable response to this barrage, or even to manage his own response to her. Out of all the improper and thoroughly damning statements she had let loose with such insouciance, the one that caught his attention was her condemnation of her own looks. It was said with such matter-of-factness and with just a touch of wistfulness that he almost protested. But the need to contradict her statement was submerged by the same confusion he had experienced when facing her last night. In the light of day the difference between this woman and the girl he had thought he was engaged to was even more pronounced. The sun-kissed face looking at him in uncritical interest, though not beautiful, was remarkable in its way. Her wide grey eyes were slightly slanted and framed by the most amazing eyelashes he had ever seen, long and silky and definite and, like her brows, several shades darker than her hair. Her mouth, too, was remarkable—generous and lush and there was a faint white scar just below its right corner. Without thinking, he reached out and touched his finger to the line.
‘I don’t remember this when I saw you in Leicestershire. What happened?’
Her lips closed tightly and she stepped away from him and he could have kicked himself not only for his insensitivity but for his irrational reaction to that imperfection, a surge of concern and protectiveness that only arose with regard to the very few people he considered under his care. But if his intention had been to deflect her from her inquisition, it worked.
‘I was thrown from a horse. It was my fault. But Juniper—the horse—is fine. I know it’s ugly.’
‘What? No, it’s just—’ He broke off. There was nothing he could say to explain, to her or to himself, why he had reacted that way. Why he had wanted to touch it and the line of her lip as it curved in. He looked down at the newspaper, trying to find his footing. Then he turned back to her resolutely.
‘Why don’t we sit down, have something to eat and then talk this over sensibly?’
Her eyes glinted at him.
‘There is a pattern forming here. You appear to think I will be more amenable once fed.’
‘I certainly will be. I’m useless without my morning coffee.’
Her smile widened, but she nodded and went to the sideboard. He kept the conversation light as they ate, telling her about Petra’s and Pluck’s successes at the racing meets, a topic which she clearly was happy to explore until she had finished her last finger of toast.
‘I’m so happy they are content with you. I still miss Pluck, but I knew Father would never let me keep her, so I’m glad she is with Petra. Well, now that we’ve eaten I admit to being impatient to hear what you are planning.’
‘What makes you think I am planning anything?’
‘I don’t know, but I’m quite certain you are. You have a look.’
Hunter, who had a reputation for being unreadable at the piquet table, barely refrained from asking what this ‘look’ was, drummed his fingers on the table and wondered how to play his cards. This was not precisely how he had imagined his dealings with a near-schoolgirl would progress. For better or worse she was a bright young woman and he had better start treating her as such.
‘May I ask what you plan to do once you are freed of this engagement?’
She considered him, clearly debating whether or not to confide in him.
‘I will probably go to Bascombe, but first I will find someone respectable to act as companion or Father or...or my aunt will think they have a duty to come...’
Her voice faded and the haunted look he had seen at Tilney returned. The last time he had seen that expression before her had been on Tim’s face. Every day since he rescued him from that French hell and until the day he killed himself. Hunter uncurled his hand from the cup before it shattered. He was right to run. He didn’t need this.
‘Bar the gates, then,’ he said, a bit more roughly than he had intended. ‘Bascombe’s gates are flanked by two portly gargoyles which make the point quite vividly.’
Her eyes focused back on him and he relaxed as the edge of a smile returned as well.
‘Gargoyles?’
‘Your grandmother’s idea. At least if they were decent sculptures it might be forgivable, but they look like drunken gnomes about to fall off toadstools.’
The smile widened.
‘Then my first order of business shall be to remove them. I don’t think they would intimidate Aunt Hester anyway. She might even like them. She has the most awful taste.’
‘I remember she told me the horrific banquet room at Tilney Hall was her design. Send her the gargoyles as a gift, then.’
She half-laughed and covered her mouth to stop the sound.
‘I’d just as happily drop them on her,’ she said daringly and he smiled. ‘Meanwhile I shall write to a schoolmistress I know to come stay with me.’
‘And then?’
She smoothed the tablecloth with her finger.
‘I haven’t decided yet. But I do know I don’t want a marriage of convenience without affection or love.’
He managed to
