She remembered Georgia in the darkened hallway. “In that case, perhaps I paid in advance. Or at least a down payment.”
“Oh?”
“Earlier at the ball last night, I assisted a young woman whose suitor was trying to steal a kiss against her wishes.”
Her benefactress rested her hands on Ashley’s shoulders. “Men,” she spat the word to the side. Then she smiled and looked deep into Ashley’s eyes as she pulled the hood up and over Ashley’s head. “We women need to stick together.”
That was the feeling among the staff and instructors at the academy, at least until the school had abruptly closed in February. With a pang, Ashley hadn’t realized how much she missed their camaraderie. “Agreed.”
Moments later she was in the coach, on her way home. She pulled the window shades down and leaned back against the lumpy squabs, clutching her silk shawl to her chest.
She was going to burn this ecru-colored gown she was wearing, or at least give it to her maid with instructions to sell it and pocket the proceeds. Once she took it off, she never wanted to see it again. Sir Rupert had touched it.
The shawl, however… Her rescuer had held it, had saved it for her, had tugged it from her shoulders and tucked it in his pocket so it couldn’t be used to identify her, to create a scandal. She buried her face in it.
It smelled different.
Overriding her own barely-there rose-scented soap, she detected… citrus. But sweet. Lemon and honey.
Her rescuer’s pocket smelled of lemon and honey?
Not just his pocket.Him. She had sniffed him—her cheeks almost burst into flame remembering how brazen she’d been while on his lap—and recalled being surprised that he did not smell of spice or musk, and instead had a light, sweet citrus scent.
He’d hummed. He’d spoken to her on the carriage ride, though she couldn’t recall the words or even the topic. Just that his deep, rumbling voice was soothing and she wanted to stay snuggled on his lap all night, wrapped in his arms and a warm blanket, however inappropriate, and for him to keep humming and talking to her and keep her safe.
She had no idea who he was or even what he looked like. Not his name, his age, certainly not his rank in society.
All she knew was that he was kind, smelled nice, had a deep voice, soft hair, and was strong enough to carry her.
And had scared off her attacker.
Did he know her identity? As they were both attending Lady Sedgewick’s ball, it stood to reason they might encounter each other again during the Season. Would they recognize one another? Had they already met?
Had they danced together?
* * *
David joined his brother-in-law at his club for luncheon two days after Lord Sedgewick’s ball. He had to be back in Parliament later that afternoon for yet another committee meeting, but was treating himself to a relaxed meal. The nice thing about dining with Templeton at the club was that they could eat and drink and read the newspaper without engaging in conversation, and no one called them on their boorish manners.
He had just finished his plate of roast beef when Templeton stood to greet newly arrived acquaintances. While his back was turned, David tipped most of his half-glass of claret into Templeton’s goblet.
His friends moving on, Templeton sat down and raised his glass. He looked mildly confused when he saw the volume of fluid, then shrugged and drank. “Lydia wants to know if you’re coming to dinner tonight at Mansfield’s and staying for rehearsal.”
David waved over the footman and requested tea and biscuits. “I haven’t decided.” He had stayed at home each evening, busy with estate business, since leaving the mysterious miss with Aunt Connie. He was uncertain if he wanted to encounter her again, or her attacker. At least there had been nothing about the incident in the newspapers. How would he behave if he saw her? Would he even recognize her? Might she recognize him?
He’d gotten only a glimpse of her here and there in the moonlight, and they hadn’t lit any candles in Aunt Connie’s parlour. Hadn’t really been paying attention to what the miss looked like when they were in the ballroom. Her companion’s purple turban with not one but three tall feathers had been distracting.
Templeton let out a belch, a long one, and David realized he was actually trying to sing a bass note. Templeton cut off the sound and took a long drink. “After seventeen years of marriage, you wouldn’t think I’d have to court my own wife. But she still wants me to sing to her. And I still don’t have your range. I’ve barely gained two notes in the last decade.”
David’s singing voice at sixteen had been deeper than Templeton’s was now at forty-five and had continued to deepen as he matured. David still entertained his nieces and nephews with it. And had scared off a cad with it. “You sing them with good resonance.”
“Bah.” Templeton paused while the footman set down the tea things and a plate of biscuits, and ordered a plate of cheese and nuts. “She’s convinced we can win this year’s prize at the Catch Club if you join us.”
“She well knows I haven’t sung in competition since Philip passed. I’m busy. And I’m out of practice.” Why couldn’t his sisters understand how much time and effort it required to run an earldom? Especially when one had not been trained for the task. David dunked a biscuit in his tea, ate it, and debated if he should have another. Surely, he’d earned two? He took it, then pushed the plate toward Templeton.
“All the more reason to come to rehearsal.”
David was about to reply when Sir Rupert settled at the next table over with a friend. He wasn’t wearing a green-and-yellow striped waistcoat, but David recognized his voice as belonging to the cad he’d scared off in the gazebo at the Sedgewicks’ ball. David snapped open his newspaper, holding it in front of his face. Templeton took the hint.
