She sent him a suspicion-laden look.
“It’s the combination of the black with your guinea-gold hair,” he said and, after a pause, added, “Wasp colors.”
She laughed, tried to turn it into a cough, failed and gave up. So his sharp-tongued little sister had a sense of humor after all. He liked her the better for it.
“We don’t always have to be at dagger drawn, you know,” he said quietly.
Her smile died. “Don’t we?”
By the time Thursday evening arrived, Cal found himself looking forward to dinner with his friend Galbraith with a ridiculous degree of anticipation. York House was the finest hotel in Bath, and the food would be excellent, but even more than a good dinner with fine wines, Cal was looking forward to an evening of straightforward, uncomplicated, blessedly logical masculine company.
***
“I tell you, Ned, dealing with females is the very devil!” Cal said after a fine meal, washed down with some excellent wine. They were now settled in comfortable overstuffed armchairs in front of a cozy fire, and on their second cognac, and both men were feeling delightfully mellow.
“Thought you liked women.”
“I said females, not women.”
Galbraith considered that. “Not sure I see your point. Femalesarewomen.”
“No! That’s where you’re wrong. All women are females, but not all females are women.”
There was a short silence. “You mean some of them are those what-d’you-call-’em—man milliners?”
“No, of course not. I mean there is an age when a young female is not yet a woman—and, Ned, at that age they might look sweet and innocent and as if butter wouldn’t melt in their mouth, but take it from me, they’re devils in disguise. A man cannot put a single foot right. One wrong move and they snap it right off!”
His friend snorted. “Too soft a heart with females, that’s your trouble. Keep cool, stand firm, and never compromise. Always worked for me.”
Cal shook his head. “All very well for you to say. You don’t have sisters. Believe me, being responsible for young females of that age—particularly young femalerelatives—well, it’s worse than... worse than...” He tried to think of an example that Galbraith would appreciate. “Remember that time when I was still wet behind the ears and was given that troop to command—most of them from the stews of London and only in the army as an alternative to being locked up in prison for God knows how long?”
“Lord, yes. Thugs and villains to a man. Scum of the earth.”
Cal nodded. “Trying to control my young sisters is harder than that.”
“Harder than commanding that riffraff?” Galbraith gavea snort of amusement. “Pull the other one. I’ve seen grown men—hard nuts they were too—shaking in their boots when called up before you for some infraction or other.”
“Yes, buttheyknew I could have them flogged.”
Galbraith gave Cal a sideways glance. “Don’t remember when you ever resorted to flogging.”
“I did once or twice—extreme circumstances.” Cal stared into his brandy glass. “But you can’t flog girls or even threaten it.”
“Suppose not.”
“And soldiers don’t burst into tears at a—very mild—reprimand, or flounce from the room, or sulk, or look at you with big wounded eyes! Or ignore my—very reasonable—orders and go their own merry way!”
There was a muffled sound from the chair opposite. Cal narrowed his eyes. “Are you laughing at me, Galbraith?”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” He met Cal’s gaze for a pregnant pause, then burst into laughter. “Lord, yes, I’m laughing. It’s priceless! Major Calbourne Rutherford, bested by a couple of schoolgirls.”
“Not schoolgirls,” Cal said gloomily. “The school wouldn’t take them back.”
“Don’t tell me you asked the school to take them back.”
Cal nodded. “Damned headmistress refused.”
There was another shout of laughter from his unsympathetic friend. “So, what are you going to do?”
