When the implication sank in, he turned away from the dance floor to look into Mrs. Forbush’s deep brown eyes. “Do you think Seymour is the wrong sort? Or me?”
She smiled again, an enigmatic expression rife with hidden meaning. “Oh, heavens! I would never say that Sir Martin is not the right sort. I just meant that perhaps he was…well, not the right match for Afton.”
Rob frowned. Surely Mrs. Forbush couldn’t be matchmaking. “What—who—would be the right match?” he asked.
“Someone strong enough to protect her. Someone who has the necessary depth of character to appreciate her. Someone who has a capacity for deep and abiding love. A man of honor.”
“Ah, then you cannot mean me,” he muttered, startled by the slightest twinge of disappointment. After all, it wasn’t as if he wanted to make a match.
Grace laughed. “Which of those things disqualifies you, Glenross?”
“All of them, I regret to say.” And if I had any intentions toward your niece, Mrs. Forbush, they would definitely not be honorable.
“I confess I have misread you, Glenross. I thought your interest in Afton was, perhaps, more than merely superficial. So then, what does account for your interest in her, my lord?”
He watched Seymour lift Afton’s hand to pass her beneath his arm. The willow-green fabric smoothed over her décolletage and caused the soft flesh to swell and strain against the row of rosebuds. Oh, what honeyed heaven did those rosebuds guard? He cleared his throat. “Can one not simply enjoy the scenery?”
“Indeed. As long as one does not mind a locked gate between himself and the scenery.”
“A locked gate?”
“Shortly, by virtue of the interest she is attracting, that particular scenery will belong to someone else, and trespassers will be shot.”
He studied Mrs. Forbush’s bland smile. Was she issuing a warning?
“Ah well, ’tis not of a pressing nature, my lord.” She waved her gray silk fan in a languorous arc. “I am certain you will have entire hours, perhaps even a day or two, to think on the matter.”
Entire hours? Was Seymour’s proposal that imminent? Odd how thinking of Afton as someone else’s exclusive provenance could cause Rob no little amount of irritation.
“Mmm,” he answered in a noncommittal undertone as the dance ended and Seymour began escorting Miss Lovejoy back to her aunt. “I am relieved I have entire hours to contemplate my future.”
Mrs. Forbush laughed, the sound warm, bubbling and entirely unconcerned, as if she already knew the outcome.
“There’s the McHugh with your aunt,” Sir Martin said, “looking ever so fierce and forbidding.”
Afton smiled. “Fierce and forbidding are quite ordinary for Lord Glenross,” she observed.
“Do you suppose he is wooing her? She’s quite delectable, is she not?” He gave Afton a sideways glance, as if measuring her response to his comment.
Bemused by that notion, Afton tilted her head to one side and studied the casual posture of Glenross and her aunt. She’d have thought it congenial, but not romantical. And yes, Grace Forbush was “delectable.” The number of men who sent her flowers, paid calls upon her and fought over invitations to her Friday salons would attest to that. But McHugh? She couldn’t picture them together—Grace with her cool elegance and McHugh with his seething, rough-edged masculinity. A poor match, that.
She repeated Sir Martin’s word. “Wooing? Do you suppose Glenross knows how to accomplish such a task?”
“May not,” Sir Martin agreed. “Maeve was given to him like a parcel wrapped with a bow. Their families betrothed them when they were still in the nursery. He never had to woo or win her. She was always…his.”
His. Afton sighed, wondering what it would be like to be his. So, they had loved each other since childhood? What sort of woman had won and kept the love and devotion of a man like McHugh, even after death? A small flash of jealousy shot through her. “You knew her? Glenross’s wife?”
“Aye. We grew up together, an unmanageable threesome if ever there was one. Willing partners in one debacle after another until we reached adolescence.”
Afton was charmed by a sudden vision of three barefoot children roaming the Scottish countryside, causing havoc. “Indeed?”
“Aye. McHugh was our ringleader. He knew every hiding place and every forbidden door in the county, and he could pick any lock known to mankind.”
Afton met McHugh’s gaze across the distance. A provocative smile curved his lips and a thrill of excitement warmed her. “He was mischievous?”
“Larcenous.” Sir Martin grinned.
She laughed. She had always suspected McHugh would not let mere rules stand between him and a goal.
Sir Martin slowed his pace and leaned near her ear to whisper, “So, if not your aunt, Miss Lovejoy, who do you suppose the McHugh is waiting for? Your sister?”
Afton shrugged. “I promised him another waltz earlier today. Perhaps he has come to collect.”
“It would have been better if he was interested in your aunt. Since she is a widow, she is free to engage in a discreet alliance. You see, I know for a certainty that McHugh is not interested in marriage. Maeve ruined him for anyone else.”
Afton was not surprised. She had suspected as much all along. “I shall warn my sister,” she murmured.
“And you, Miss Lovejoy?”
“Me?”
“Did you have any hopes in that direction?”
Afton was startled by the question—both that Sir Martin had asked it, and that she had never contemplated it. Oh, she’d thought of McHugh often enough, but only to wonder what it would be like to kiss him, and if hands gentle enough to replace her hood and wipe away a tear would be likewise gentle in an embrace. She felt the heat of a blush creep into her cheeks at those possibilities.
But hope that he might make an offer for her? Absurd. Aside from the fact that he was still in love with his dead wife, he was far too…intense. There was an impalpable darkness that hovered about him, as if he knew that darkness intimately. As if he cherished it. Courted it.
“Miss Lovejoy?” Sir Martin repeated.
Afton shook her head to clear it of the troubling thoughts. “Hopes, Sir Martin? Nay. I am not that foolish.”
Rob wondered what the hell Seymour had said to elicit Miss Lovejoy’s delicate blush. It was all he could do to maintain his self-control as he waited for his friend to deliver her back to her aunt. Patience was not Rob’s strong point. And neither, it would seem, was sharing.
He took a deep breath and relaxed his tense muscles. What had gotten into him? He had better claim the waltz she had promised this afternoon and then be on his way. Miss Lovejoy was not for him. Too sweet. Too innocent. Too damn
