“Few are. And I am not among them.”
“Your eyebrows tell a different story.”
Bloody hell. He reached up to smooth out the crease between them. “I… my eyebrows. They should be hidden by my hat.” Who said things like that? He cleared his throat. “I am not in search of love. As you are aware, I have other priorities.”
She set her sights on their walking feet, burrowing her arms deeper into her fur muff. “You side with us pragmatists, then.” She flashed him a smile. “Because you must, not becauseyou wish to. Do you think such an arrangement will suityou, though?” She leaned closer, lowered her voice. “There is fun to be had in it, but not if one half of the partnership is… moping.”
“Moping?” Him?
She nodded.
“I’m not moping. I’m perfectly agreeable with the arrangement we might form.” He grinned, and she winced, rearing away from him. Perhaps he had not grinned after all? He snapped his lips back over his teeth. How could he be so bloody bad at this?
“You look less agreeable and more… constipated.”
He choked, tripped, had to right himself. How in hell did one respond to that?My bowels are in perfect running order, thank you very much.Why not? Lady Huxley had chucked the rules right into the Serpentine.
Ahead of them, Felicity laughed once more, and Lady Emma backed off the path. She sat on a bench situated in the shade of a large oak, snagged the pencil from behind her ear, retrieved her notebook from her pocket, and set to scribbling once more.
What, though? Something about a match for Felicity? He’d promised not to interfere, but he could not snuff out a strong vein of curiosity. He’d spent many hours pondering the mysteries of courtship, and this woman professed to have the light that would illuminate it.
“Pardon me, Lady Huxley. I see a… family friend, and I must speak with her.”
“Very well.”
“I look forward to our next conversation.” He was wavering off course. But the wind would pull him where it wished, it seemed. And frankly, he’d rather not discuss matters better left in a chamber pot. He bowed and headed for the bench.
Lady Emma did not notice his approach. She bent over the notebook in complete concentration, curving her back into alovely C shape. What would it look like stripped of pelisse, gown, stays, shift? The knotty indentations of each vertebrae charting a path for a man’s hands to explore.
There went his loins again. Christ. His control seemed to have taken a holiday.
She grunted, shook her head, and scratched something out, then set to scribbling once more.
He stopped behind her, leaning to peer over her shoulder, catch a few words. But her bonnet blocked it all, cursed thing. Her hand froze. White gloves again, that bit of delicate embroidery, frayed fingertips. Her fingers must be cold. But then she kept them so busy, they must be warm from her exertions. She made a little humming noise in her throat, thoughtful and dreamy, and then she tilted her head back, lifting her face to the sun. Eyes closed and red-gold lashes fanned out above her cheekbones. Skin there a bit bruised, as if she had not slept well. Red curls poking out near her temple, her ear, her jaw.
He clasped his hands tightly behind his back because curls shaped to bounce about a man’s fingers could tempt them to ruin so, so very easily.
Her eyes opened.
She squeaked, snapped up straight, and twisted to face him. “Your Grace!” She pressed a hand to her chest. “My, but you frightened me.”
“Apologies.”
“You don’t mean that. You’re grinning.”
“I’m not.” Said through a grin. “What are you writing?”
“Notes.”
“About?”
After a pause which seemed to serve the same purpose as an eye roll, she said, “Your sister. The gentlemen she’s conversing with.”
“What do they say?”
“They are my notes, Your Grace, and I do not wish to share them yet.”
“I’m her brother. And a duke.”
