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Authors: Manda Collins
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Winterson spoke up.
“Why the transformation this evening?” he asked, waving a hand toward her hair and gown.
It was the last question she’d expected from him. She’d spent so long preparing her set-down for him, it hadn’t occurred to her that he would even notice her new gown and new hairstyle.
Well, that was not strictly true, because in a moment of weakness she had imagined how he might see her newer, prettier self and proclaim his undying love while she stepped on his beseeching hands as he knelt before her. But that hardly counted.
Deciding not to make a fuss, she said primly, “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.” Just for good measure, she smiled, batted, and tilted.
“Have you got something in your eye?” he asked, frowning in concern.
Cecily’d bet anything that Amelia Snowe was never asked if she had a crick in her neck or a piece of lint in her eye.
Apparently taking her clipped “No” at face value, he pressed on with his questions about her attire. “Come now, Miss Hurston. I may not be able to translate texts in half a dozen languages, but I’m no simpleton. I can tell the difference between a gown that is made for comfort and one meant to entice. And tonight’s gown is definitely the latter.”
Entice?
“If you are suggesting that our meeting this morning sent me rushing home in search of a new hairstyle and a new gown…”
“Pax, Miss Hurston!” He threw up his hands in a gesture of surrender. “That is not what I meant at all.”
She eyed him with suspicion, not quite sure what to do with a conciliatory Winterson. She was much more comfortable dealing with the accusatory one. When he behaved himself it was much too easy to notice how very blue his eyes were, and how very good he smelled—like sandalwood and soap.
Perhaps sensing her unease, he added, “Truly, not what I meant at all.” Then he smiled in what she supposed was meant to be a reassuring expression, but which merely emphasized his handsomeness and put her back on her guard.
Still, she could hardly fault the man for something so far out of his control as his good looks. “Good,” she said finally, “because the change in my appearance has nothing to do with you.”
His eyes widened for a fraction of a second. Surely he wasn’t disappointed, Cecily thought. Then remembering who she was thinking of, she chided herself. He probably had indigestion from the Duchess of Bewle’s crab patties. Still, for all her distrust of him, they did share the common goal of wishing to gain access to the Egyptian Club. And though she disliked admitting it, they both wished to learn whether or not Lord Hurston was involved in Mr. Dalton’s disappearance. Albeit for radically different reasons.
Also, he was a gentleman and might have some suggestions for how she might go about persuading one of the club members to see her as a potential fiancée. And perhaps she could do something for him. Perhaps frighten away the matchmaking mamas—weren’t all the marriageable gentlemen forever bemoaning the young ladies who schemed to trap them into marriage?
The more she thought of it, the more she recognized the soundness of the plan.
Looking over her shoulder, and around the rest of the terrace to ensure that no one was near enough to hear her, she leaned forward.
“I will tell you my reasons,” she whispered conspiratorially, “but you must keep this between the two of us.”
The duke leaned forward as well, eyebrows raised in expectation.
“I did it…” she hissed, “because I mean to marry a member of the Egyptian Club.”
Four
“The devil you will,” Lucas said, resisting the urge to take Miss Hurston by the shoulders and shake some sense into her.
The idea of her marrying some prosy scholar with more hair than wit was ridiculous. Not only because she deserved better, but because there had to be a better way for her to get her hands on her father’s journals. It had nothing at all to do with the way
“Why the transformation this evening?” he asked, waving a hand toward her hair and gown.
It was the last question she’d expected from him. She’d spent so long preparing her set-down for him, it hadn’t occurred to her that he would even notice her new gown and new hairstyle.
Well, that was not strictly true, because in a moment of weakness she had imagined how he might see her newer, prettier self and proclaim his undying love while she stepped on his beseeching hands as he knelt before her. But that hardly counted.
Deciding not to make a fuss, she said primly, “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.” Just for good measure, she smiled, batted, and tilted.
“Have you got something in your eye?” he asked, frowning in concern.
Cecily’d bet anything that Amelia Snowe was never asked if she had a crick in her neck or a piece of lint in her eye.
Apparently taking her clipped “No” at face value, he pressed on with his questions about her attire. “Come now, Miss Hurston. I may not be able to translate texts in half a dozen languages, but I’m no simpleton. I can tell the difference between a gown that is made for comfort and one meant to entice. And tonight’s gown is definitely the latter.”
Entice?
“If you are suggesting that our meeting this morning sent me rushing home in search of a new hairstyle and a new gown…”
“Pax, Miss Hurston!” He threw up his hands in a gesture of surrender. “That is not what I meant at all.”
She eyed him with suspicion, not quite sure what to do with a conciliatory Winterson. She was much more comfortable dealing with the accusatory one. When he behaved himself it was much too easy to notice how very blue his eyes were, and how very good he smelled—like sandalwood and soap.
Perhaps sensing her unease, he added, “Truly, not what I meant at all.” Then he smiled in what she supposed was meant to be a reassuring expression, but which merely emphasized his handsomeness and put her back on her guard.
Still, she could hardly fault the man for something so far out of his control as his good looks. “Good,” she said finally, “because the change in my appearance has nothing to do with you.”
His eyes widened for a fraction of a second. Surely he wasn’t disappointed, Cecily thought. Then remembering who she was thinking of, she chided herself. He probably had indigestion from the Duchess of Bewle’s crab patties. Still, for all her distrust of him, they did share the common goal of wishing to gain access to the Egyptian Club. And though she disliked admitting it, they both wished to learn whether or not Lord Hurston was involved in Mr. Dalton’s disappearance. Albeit for radically different reasons.
Also, he was a gentleman and might have some suggestions for how she might go about persuading one of the club members to see her as a potential fiancée. And perhaps she could do something for him. Perhaps frighten away the matchmaking mamas—weren’t all the marriageable gentlemen forever bemoaning the young ladies who schemed to trap them into marriage?
The more she thought of it, the more she recognized the soundness of the plan.
Looking over her shoulder, and around the rest of the terrace to ensure that no one was near enough to hear her, she leaned forward.
“I will tell you my reasons,” she whispered conspiratorially, “but you must keep this between the two of us.”
The duke leaned forward as well, eyebrows raised in expectation.
“I did it…” she hissed, “because I mean to marry a member of the Egyptian Club.”
Four
“The devil you will,” Lucas said, resisting the urge to take Miss Hurston by the shoulders and shake some sense into her.
The idea of her marrying some prosy scholar with more hair than wit was ridiculous. Not only because she deserved better, but because there had to be a better way for her to get her hands on her father’s journals. It had nothing at all to do with the way
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