In the two years since he’d met her, he’d seen her at work a number of times. She distracted maidenly aunts to help facilitate unchaperoned marriage proposals. She rearranged conversational groups, murmuring in response to his curious glance, “Lady Stratton can’t abide the Earl of Puddington. I’d hate to see fisticuffs ruin my aunt’s party.”
He’d seen her identify a fragile dowager missing a glove from across a crowded room and produce a new glove as if from nowhere.
Once, at the Breightmets’, he’d seen her thrust her friend Lydia Hope-Wallace into a potted palm. He’d watched with interest as Lydia had cast up her accounts, hidden from all passersby, and then stood by in frank amazement as Selina somehow managed to remove Lydia from the ball without a single other person seeming to notice their departure.
Just last December, she’d organized the elopement of Clermont—who had become one of Peter’s closest companions—and her own dear friend Faiza Khan. Clermont and Faiza had given every impression of despising each other. Peter had been quite certain no one but he knew that Clermont carried Faiza’s earring in his pocket like a blasted talisman.
But Selina must have known. She had certainly knownsomething,because one day Clermont and Faiza had been shouting at one another over dinner and the next they were well on their way to Scotland, in a post-chaise personally hired by Selina.
She was so damned efficient. She seemed like she could be in two places at once. She could light up the room like the most popular woman of thebeau monde,but he’d also seen her fade into the background when she chose to. Though how she managed that, he had no idea, what with her acres of honey-blond hair and that wide, expressive mouth.
And her eyes, light amber, like a cat’s eyes, or a wolf’s. He’d thought about those eyes from time to time these last two years.
Not as often, though, as he’d thought about how infernally clever she was, and how much he liked that about her. She fixed things, like her brother—but not in his same way. Rowland was a politician, all careful talk and social grace and terrifying ethical code. Selina wasn’t afraid to sneak about, to hide in a potted plant or steal a glove if she had to.
And when he’d seen the way Lu had warmed to her, and the way Selina had known instinctively how to win Lu’s confidence, it had occurred to him suddenly that if anyone might have a fresh thought about how he could gain custody of his siblings, it would be Selina Ravenscroft.
He was still thinking about her when they arrived at Rowland House.
The butler ushered them inside and set out to determine if His Grace was receiving callers.
“And Lady Selina,” Peter added. “I’d like to see His Grace and Lady Selina.”
He felt rather than saw Tagore’s sharp dark-eyed gaze.
Like a penknife, that look.
“Social call, is it?” said Tagore blandly.
“No,” Peter said. “No. Have you met Lady Selina?”
“I have not had the pleasure. Rowland’s sister?”
“That’s right. When you meet her, you’ll see why I want her here as well.”
Tagore snorted. “I’m sure I will.”
Peter ignored him, and the butler returned to deliver them into a drawing room decorated in blues and creams. Nicholas Ravenscroft, the Duke of Rowland, stood to greet them as they entered. He was tall and dark-haired, perhaps half a dozen years older than Peter’s own nine-and-twenty. His wife, Daphne, was there as well, a welcoming smile on her face and her riotous mahogany curls springing in all directions.
And in the corner of the room, rising to her feet from a leather armchair, was Selina.
Today she wore demure white, and there was no trace of the immense green thing she’d had on her head when he’d met her on Bond Street. He couldn’t quite say whether he missed it—he’d rather admired the way she had worn it, all defiance, as if it were a crown and not a hat the size of a barque. Her gloves were neatly buttoned at her wrists, and she gave him the politest of curtsies as he greeted her. Her eyes were downcast, and for just a moment he doubted this whole damned thing.
Then she looked up, and that fierce tawny gaze caught his, and he knew down to his bones that he’d been right to think of her.
And he had the strangest thought then: that he’d been righteverytime he’d thought of her. That every time she had crossed his mind—her keen wit and her capable manner and even, if he were being honest with himself, the plump curve of her mouth and the tender spot at the nape of her neck—every time, it had been right. That she belonged exactly there, inside his head.
Which was ridiculous, even for him.
He shook off the peculiar notion and seated himself as the duchess poured tea for all of them. He noticed when Daphne stripped off her gloves that there were ink stains on her fingers, and he recalled that she was intimately involved in the stewardship of several of their country estates. He wondered if askingallof the Ravenscrofts for advice about how to manage his affairs would be a bit beyond the pale.
They made polite small talk for a few minutes, and then Selina helpfully directed the conversation where Peter wanted it to go.
“And did you see your brother and sister safely home to Aunt Rosamund then?” she asked, her fingers nudging her teacup to the exact center of its saucer.
“I did, yes,” Peter said, and then turned to the rest of the group to explain. “Lady Selina had the rather adulterated pleasure of meeting my brother and sister last week in town while I took them shopping.”
One corner of Selina’s mouth quirked up, but she didn’t say anything about the fencing, which was probably good, since he wanted Rowland to think of him as a responsible guardian and not an impulsive degenerate who would permit his sister to behave like a hoyden.
