choke. “My dear!” he said, “I know nothing about you at all. You’re as evasive as an eel, slippery as one too. I’m an open book! You have my name, my rank—my life, in sum.”
One eyebrow lifted as she stared at him. “Yes,” she said levelly, “you’re a London gentleman, a nobleman of fame and fortune. That’s the sum of it? Fine, then. And so I’m a country woman of no particular note, and adequate means. There we are. Shall I get your scones now?”
He crossed his arms over his chest. “I’m five and thirty,” he said, “bedeviled because my father wants me to marry and I haven’t found the lady of his dreams yet. I went to Eton, as I said, then Oxford. I served my country by working for the War Office, which means I’ve lived abroad a great deal. I have a few good friends and many more acquaintances.”
She sat back, listening with rapt attention.
“I like to sing,” he went on, “and am not crushed that my leg is, because I’m not that keen on dancing. I get into heated arguments about politics. I fence, box,ride, and drive, but don’t consider myself a Corinthian or a dedicated sportsman of any kind. I read and go to plays, but am not an intellectual. I’m in demand at parties because I can flatter anyone for anything at any time. I’m very good at conversation, because that’s what we wastrel London gentlemen excel at. I can talk for an hour on any subject, and even make sense sometimes.”
Drum was very pleased with himself for making her laugh again. Too pleased, he knew. But he was careful and knew himself well. To flirt was not to fall. To charm was not the same as making a misstep. He’d pass the time pleasantly, amusing both himself and her. Why not? It was no great task. He’d think of her as a nun, a charming one, a woman who was his nurse and hostess, but one already taken by another, far more powerful than he was. Society was just that.
Alexandria Gascoyne, pretty, charming, and kind as she was, could be nothing else to him anyway. She had neither birth or wealth. Nothing but that lovely face, figure, and personality. That might be enough for her to make her way in the world, but not his world. A schoolmaster’s daughter, she might be a suitable wife for some other schoolmaster, a clerk, or maybe even some member of the middle gentry. But not for him, he thought hastily. She was too far beneath him in class to be a wife, too middle class for the role of his mistress. She was respectable, after all.
But still, he thought idly, it could be said that she was a scholar’s daughter. That was no shame. It wasn’t as though she was a maidservant, a tavern wench, a seamstress, or an ignorant farm girl…He thought of his father’s reaction and killed that train of thought. Heliked Alexandria, he was definitely attracted to her, but he was, after all, not a boy, not a fool, and certainly not in love—which as dangerous as it might have been for him, was really too bad, he thought sadly.
He changed his line of thought. “With lots of cream, please,” he said suddenly.
She’d been sitting, digesting what he’d said, waiting for him to go on. Now she startled and looked her question at him.
“You did say scones?” he asked. “So that must be what I smell now, right?”
“No, I don’t think so,” she said slowly. “It’s my new perfume. You know what they say about us country girls, using vanilla for scent? I tried butter.” She waited for his appreciative grin, then added, “Don’t worry, I’ll just go get your scones now.”
“I’ll try to confound the doctor and be alive by the time you get back…but you’d better hurry.”
He lay back after she’d gone. So. He’d live. He felt better than he’d expected, much sooner too. He’d been wounded before and knew the way of it. He’d been lucky. Recuperation would be swift, and now, it seemed, amusing too. He only had to find out who had shot at him and make sure it never happened again. He’d do it,
One eyebrow lifted as she stared at him. “Yes,” she said levelly, “you’re a London gentleman, a nobleman of fame and fortune. That’s the sum of it? Fine, then. And so I’m a country woman of no particular note, and adequate means. There we are. Shall I get your scones now?”
He crossed his arms over his chest. “I’m five and thirty,” he said, “bedeviled because my father wants me to marry and I haven’t found the lady of his dreams yet. I went to Eton, as I said, then Oxford. I served my country by working for the War Office, which means I’ve lived abroad a great deal. I have a few good friends and many more acquaintances.”
She sat back, listening with rapt attention.
“I like to sing,” he went on, “and am not crushed that my leg is, because I’m not that keen on dancing. I get into heated arguments about politics. I fence, box,ride, and drive, but don’t consider myself a Corinthian or a dedicated sportsman of any kind. I read and go to plays, but am not an intellectual. I’m in demand at parties because I can flatter anyone for anything at any time. I’m very good at conversation, because that’s what we wastrel London gentlemen excel at. I can talk for an hour on any subject, and even make sense sometimes.”
Drum was very pleased with himself for making her laugh again. Too pleased, he knew. But he was careful and knew himself well. To flirt was not to fall. To charm was not the same as making a misstep. He’d pass the time pleasantly, amusing both himself and her. Why not? It was no great task. He’d think of her as a nun, a charming one, a woman who was his nurse and hostess, but one already taken by another, far more powerful than he was. Society was just that.
Alexandria Gascoyne, pretty, charming, and kind as she was, could be nothing else to him anyway. She had neither birth or wealth. Nothing but that lovely face, figure, and personality. That might be enough for her to make her way in the world, but not his world. A schoolmaster’s daughter, she might be a suitable wife for some other schoolmaster, a clerk, or maybe even some member of the middle gentry. But not for him, he thought hastily. She was too far beneath him in class to be a wife, too middle class for the role of his mistress. She was respectable, after all.
But still, he thought idly, it could be said that she was a scholar’s daughter. That was no shame. It wasn’t as though she was a maidservant, a tavern wench, a seamstress, or an ignorant farm girl…He thought of his father’s reaction and killed that train of thought. Heliked Alexandria, he was definitely attracted to her, but he was, after all, not a boy, not a fool, and certainly not in love—which as dangerous as it might have been for him, was really too bad, he thought sadly.
He changed his line of thought. “With lots of cream, please,” he said suddenly.
She’d been sitting, digesting what he’d said, waiting for him to go on. Now she startled and looked her question at him.
“You did say scones?” he asked. “So that must be what I smell now, right?”
“No, I don’t think so,” she said slowly. “It’s my new perfume. You know what they say about us country girls, using vanilla for scent? I tried butter.” She waited for his appreciative grin, then added, “Don’t worry, I’ll just go get your scones now.”
“I’ll try to confound the doctor and be alive by the time you get back…but you’d better hurry.”
He lay back after she’d gone. So. He’d live. He felt better than he’d expected, much sooner too. He’d been wounded before and knew the way of it. He’d been lucky. Recuperation would be swift, and now, it seemed, amusing too. He only had to find out who had shot at him and make sure it never happened again. He’d do it,
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