“You’ve never been?”
She shook her head. “I’ve seldom been out of London. School, of course, but that was only to Windsor, so it hardly counts. And my step-uncle has a country house in Sussex. I’ve been there for holidays a few times.”
“Nowhere else? Ah,” he added when she shook her head, “that explains it, then.”
“Explains what?”
“Your passion for Baedeker.”
“Yes.” Her expression grew pensive. “I am quite the armchair traveler, I suppose.”
“Well, if you ever have the opportunity to change that, as a loyal resident of Gloucestershire, I must advise you come to my part of the world first. Or better still,” he added on impulse, “have Delia bring you when she comes up for Whitsuntide. I’ll be in residence.”
“I thought you were in London for the season?”
“I am, but I’m always home for Whitsuntide. We usually have some sort of house party, and I’m sure Delia would be delighted to bring you along with her. You’d be more than welcome.”
She smiled a little. “Trying to hire me to plan the house party, are you?”
“I doubt I’ll have to. Knowing your obsession with working all the time, you’ll probably volunteer.”
She grinned at that. “Well, then,” she countered, taking up the remaining notes on Arabian Nights, “since I’ve been accused of working too hard, and since I am currently on holiday...” she paused and held out the sheets of paper, “you can decide the decorations on your own.”
“Dancing girls it is, then,” he said at once, grinning back at her.
Her smile became a wry twist of the lips. “Are you sure that’s wise? Your friend Helen might not like it.”
He blinked, startled to realize that what Helen would think of the matter had never even occurred to him.
Still, it wouldn’t do to say so. “True,” he said instead, his voice light, “but in the game of love, one must never allow one’s quarry to be too sure of one’s affections.”
“Is it love?” she asked, then flushed. “Forgive me. That was a very impertinent question.”
“You seem quite happy being impertinent where I’m concerned,” he countered dryly, “but since you’re asking, no, it’s not love.”
She frowned. “You don’t love her, but you seriously intend to marry her anyway?”
He met the disapproval in her gaze head on. “That surprises you?”
She sighed. “I suppose not. I long ago ceased to be surprised by the things your set does.”
“If it soothes your sense of middle-class morality,” he countered, feeling oddly defensive, “let me assure you Helen is not any more in love with me than I am with her. But we are fond of each other, and I would venture to say that both of us understand that fondness and affection can lead to love and make for a happy union.”
“How inspiring you make it sound.”
The dryness of her reply did not escape him. “In my position, a marriage has to be based on suitability, not love.”
“All the more reason why I’d never marry a peer.”
He decided it was best to leave it at that. “Speaking of Helen, I really must be off. I’m meeting her and her mother for luncheon.”
“Before you go,” she said as he reached for his hat, “there is something I need to ask you. I intended to ask you this yesterday, but it slipped my mind. All the stress of yesterday’s events, I suppose.”
“Something about the party?”
“No, about the bet. How do you know if you’ve won? You and your friends must have established some sort of criteria to determine the winner?”
“Oh, that.” He laughed, touching a hand to his forehead in acknowledgment of his own absentmindedness. “Didn’t I explain that part? Don’t worry,” he added as she shook her head. “It’s perfectly straightforward.”
