Hopefully, the men she identified for Lady Felicity were less so. If they were, though, she’d figure them out. She would match Lady Felicity successfully. The consequences of failing too dire to contemplate.
Her sisters would have the freedom to choose lives and loves of their own. The freedom she’d never have; the future she’d already given up on.
She crawled into bed and pulled the blankets over her head, feeling the gentle press of a man’s kiss beneath the moonlight as she tumbled into sleep.
Chapter Four
The dowager Marchioness of Huxley was… nice. She sat prim and proper across a small distance from him, a teacup curled in her hands. Much too young to be a widow, but life often made what it pleased of people, without asking what they wanted.
Samuel shifted in the too-small chair, crossing one ankle over his knee. They seemed to have run out of conversational topics. How long had it been since either of them had uttered a word?
Much. Too. Long.
He glanced at Lottie across the room. She sat in comfortable conversation with Lady Templeton and Andromeda. Lottie had insisted three others besides himself and the marchioness was the perfect number of people to chaperone a courtship. One other made the meeting’s purpose too obvious, and more than three perhaps put too much pressure on both of them to talk with others. This way, they made almost even groups of two and three, the unbalanced nature of those numbers meant to appear natural.
Should he have known all that? About numbers and pressure and courtship?
Likely. He’d thought the whole business down to a man and a woman and perhaps another man or two to encourage a bit of healthy jealousy.
Perhaps he should ask Lady Huxley’s thoughts on the matter. No. Daft notion, that. It should be as easy to speak with her as it had been to speak with the moon maiden last night. But kissing a stranger apparently came easier than conversing with the woman he might marry.
Not good.
“Your Grace?” Lady Huxley cleared her throat and stroked a tiny curl slicked against her temple. Her brown locks were cropped close and wrapped round with a bright blue ribbon. The style out of fashion but charming. It suited her.
“Yes?”
She winced, and he did, too. Too eager, that response, too loud. He cleared his throat, tried again.
“Yes, Lady Huxley?” There. Much better.
“I was wondering if you have any hobbies. Drawing, music? Boxing perhaps?” Her gaze skated across the width of his shoulders and down to his waist and thighs before bouncing back to his face.
“I enjoy boxing. Fencing more. Mostly, I throw knives.”
A nervous chuckle. “I’d heard that. I’d hoped it might be a myth. How does one begin to take up such a hobby?”
“Carefully.”
“Ah. Haha. Naturally.” Her gaze roamed to the little group of three on the other side of the room. Likely, she hoped for escape, too. What was he doing wrong? What was healwaysdoing wrong?
“And you? Do you have any hobbies?” Other than reading erotic novels, of course. He had not wanted to reveal he knew about the books. Telling her he knew her secret might appear too much like blackmail.Marry me or I’ll reveal your secret.He’d have to grow a mustache long enough to twirl in a sinister manner. He hated facial hair. It itched. But Lottie had insisted they be open with one another from the beginning. So, she knew he knew.
God he hoped she didn’t want to talk about it.
“Not really,” she said. “I suppose I enjoy reading.” She quirked a smile. “As you know. And social events. Balls and musicals and calling on my friends in the afternoons. I do keep up with parliamentary matters.” She looked at him as if she expected him to congratulate her.
“That is… unusual for most women, I believe.” But even if they did not read the papers, his sisters usually knew something because they’d suffered through his morning diatribes that accompanied his reading the paper. “The parliamentary part, not the social events…” Better to stop talking.
Hell, what time was it? The matchmaker was supposed to arrive at half past noon. He wanted to speak with her before she met Felicity, ensure himself she was an appropriate companion for his sisters.
“What I mean to say, Your Grace”—Lady Huxley leaned forward ever so slightly and dropped her voice, as if about to impart information it was safe only for him to hear—“is that I am adept at social maneuvering and capable of conversation with powerful men and women on important topics.”
“A-ah. Yes.” He understood now. She could do what a duchess must and use her social influence to encourage his parliamentary goals. “Excellent. Good for you.” Good for him, too. Wasn’t it?
She was pretty, with soft, delicate features and clever brown eyes. Short of stature. Too short, really. The hair, too. He preferred it long enough to wrap around his hand once or twice. But then hair hardly mattered (especially if it was not some shade between copper and bronze and glinted in the moonlight)because coiffures came and went as quickly as gown styles. Sleeves, currently, were rather puffy and hair, apparently, was currently styled elaborately. Or cut short? And… what had they been talking about?
Every time he tried to send a thought flying straight to a target, some memory of last night in the garden sent a storm wind to blow it off course.
