Read Online Lady Whistledown Strikes Back by Julia Quinn - Free Book Online
Authors: Julia Quinn
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wanted to
yank at his cravat. Tillie would have laughed with delight if she
hadn’t been quite sure that it would just discomfort him further.
And she realized—she’d thought it was true two days before, but now she knew—that she loved him.
It was an amazing, stunning feeling, and it had
become, quite spectacularly, a part of who she was. Whatever she’d been
before, she was something else now. She didn’t exist for him, and she
didn’t exist because of him, but somehow he had become a little piece
of her soul, and she knew that she would never be the same.
“Let’s go outside,” she said impulsively, tugging toward the door.
He resisted her movement, holding his arm still against the pressure of her hand. “Tillie, you know that is a bad idea.”
“For your reputation or mine?” she teased. “Both,” he replied forcefully, “although I might remind you that mine would recover.”
And so would hers, Tillie thought giddily, provided
he married her. Not that she wanted to trap him into matrimony, but
still, it was impossible not to think of it, not to fantasize right
here in the middle of the ball about standing beside him at the front
of a church, all her friends behind her, listening as she spoke her
vows.
“No one will see,” she said, pulling his arm as
best as she could without attracting attention. “Besides, look, the
party has moved out to the garden. We shan’t be the least bit alone.”
Peter followed her gaze toward the French doors. Sure enough, there
were several couples milling about, enough so that no one’s reputation
would suffer stain.
“Very well,” he said, “if you insist.” She smiled
winningly. “Oh, I do.” The night air was cool but welcome after the
humid crush in the ballroom. Peter tried to keep them in full view of
the doors, but Tillie kept tugging toward the shadows, and though he
should have stood his ground and rooted her to the spot, he found he
couldn’t.
She led, and he followed, and he knew it was wrong, but there was nothing he could make himself do about it.
“Do you really think someone stole the bracelet?”
Tillie asked once they were leaning against the balustrade, staring out
at the torchlit garden.
“I don’t want to talk about the bracelet.” “Very
well,” she said. “I don’t want to talk about Harry.” He smiled. There
was something in her tone that struck him as funny, and she must have
heard it, too, because she was grinning at him.
“Have we anything left about which to converse?” she asked.
“The weather?”
She gave him a vaguely scolding expression.
“I know you don’t want to discuss politics or religion.”
“Quite,” she said pertly. “Not now, at any rate.”
“Very well, then,” he said. “It’s your turn to suggest a topic.”
“All right,” she said. “I’m game. Tell me about your wife.”
He choked on what had to be the largest speck of dust in creation. “My wife?” he echoed.
“The one you claim you’re looking for,” she
explained. “You might as well tell me just what it is you’re seeking,
since clearly I will have to aid you in the search.”
“Will you?”
“Indeed. You said I do nothing but make you appear
a fortune hunter, and we’ve just spent the last thirty minutes in each
other’s company, several of them in full view of the worst gossips in
London. According to your arguments, I have set you back a full month.”
She shrugged, although the motion was obscured by the soft blue wrap
she’d pulled tightly around her shoulders. “It’s the very least I can
do.”
He regarded her for a long moment, then lost his inner battle and gave in.
“Very Well. What do you want to know?”
She smiled with delight at her victory. “Is she intelligent?”
“Of course.”
“Very good answer, Mr. Thompson.”
He nodded graciously, wishing he was strong enough
not to enjoy the moment. But there was no hope for him; he couldn’t
resist her.
She tapped her index finger
yank at his cravat. Tillie would have laughed with delight if she
hadn’t been quite sure that it would just discomfort him further.
And she realized—she’d thought it was true two days before, but now she knew—that she loved him.
It was an amazing, stunning feeling, and it had
become, quite spectacularly, a part of who she was. Whatever she’d been
before, she was something else now. She didn’t exist for him, and she
didn’t exist because of him, but somehow he had become a little piece
of her soul, and she knew that she would never be the same.
“Let’s go outside,” she said impulsively, tugging toward the door.
He resisted her movement, holding his arm still against the pressure of her hand. “Tillie, you know that is a bad idea.”
“For your reputation or mine?” she teased. “Both,” he replied forcefully, “although I might remind you that mine would recover.”
And so would hers, Tillie thought giddily, provided
he married her. Not that she wanted to trap him into matrimony, but
still, it was impossible not to think of it, not to fantasize right
here in the middle of the ball about standing beside him at the front
of a church, all her friends behind her, listening as she spoke her
vows.
“No one will see,” she said, pulling his arm as
best as she could without attracting attention. “Besides, look, the
party has moved out to the garden. We shan’t be the least bit alone.”
Peter followed her gaze toward the French doors. Sure enough, there
were several couples milling about, enough so that no one’s reputation
would suffer stain.
“Very well,” he said, “if you insist.” She smiled
winningly. “Oh, I do.” The night air was cool but welcome after the
humid crush in the ballroom. Peter tried to keep them in full view of
the doors, but Tillie kept tugging toward the shadows, and though he
should have stood his ground and rooted her to the spot, he found he
couldn’t.
She led, and he followed, and he knew it was wrong, but there was nothing he could make himself do about it.
“Do you really think someone stole the bracelet?”
Tillie asked once they were leaning against the balustrade, staring out
at the torchlit garden.
“I don’t want to talk about the bracelet.” “Very
well,” she said. “I don’t want to talk about Harry.” He smiled. There
was something in her tone that struck him as funny, and she must have
heard it, too, because she was grinning at him.
“Have we anything left about which to converse?” she asked.
“The weather?”
She gave him a vaguely scolding expression.
“I know you don’t want to discuss politics or religion.”
“Quite,” she said pertly. “Not now, at any rate.”
“Very well, then,” he said. “It’s your turn to suggest a topic.”
“All right,” she said. “I’m game. Tell me about your wife.”
He choked on what had to be the largest speck of dust in creation. “My wife?” he echoed.
“The one you claim you’re looking for,” she
explained. “You might as well tell me just what it is you’re seeking,
since clearly I will have to aid you in the search.”
“Will you?”
“Indeed. You said I do nothing but make you appear
a fortune hunter, and we’ve just spent the last thirty minutes in each
other’s company, several of them in full view of the worst gossips in
London. According to your arguments, I have set you back a full month.”
She shrugged, although the motion was obscured by the soft blue wrap
she’d pulled tightly around her shoulders. “It’s the very least I can
do.”
He regarded her for a long moment, then lost his inner battle and gave in.
“Very Well. What do you want to know?”
She smiled with delight at her victory. “Is she intelligent?”
“Of course.”
“Very good answer, Mr. Thompson.”
He nodded graciously, wishing he was strong enough
not to enjoy the moment. But there was no hope for him; he couldn’t
resist her.
She tapped her index finger
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