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reared lady, not in any weather but especially not now.”
“Indeed?” Arching a brow, Adrian turned to Abby. “It seems, my dear, that in light of your established habits, Kilby no longer deems you a lady.”
Abby suppressed her gasp and fought not to laugh; Adrian’s amber eyes audaciously quizzed her, daring her to grasp the opportunity to put Kilby in his place. She knew she shouldn’t encourage Adrian—God only knew how outrageous he might become—but she couldn’t resist. Drawing herself up, she looked censoriously at Kilby.
He had paled. His gaping mouth closed, then opened again. “That isn’t what I meant!” he eventually got out.
“Isn’t it?” Adrian turned his devilish gaze on him. “I must admit it seems a long bow. Abby—Miss Woolley—has been riding the moor since she could sit a pony. So have I. No one’s yet suggested such an activity tarnishes my claims to gentility—I don’t see why it should affect hers.”
Mr. Kilby drew in a long breath. “I meant,” he said, “that it’s dangerous for a lady to ride the moor, especially with snow on the ground.”
“As to danger,” Adrian drawled, “it’s been my observation over many years that Miss Woolley knows the moor as well as I, which is to say a great deal better than most. And as she doesn’t go out collecting specimens between the first freeze and early spring, there seems little call for your concern, sir.”
Stiff before, Kilby was now rigid. “All ladies need to be protected—”
“Especially from gentlemen who fail to appreciate them.” Adrian inclined his head. “My sentiments exactly.”
Kilby nearly choked. High color suffusing his face, he bowed stiffly. “If you’ll excuse me?”
Abby regally inclined her head. Adrian merely watched as the squire stalked from the room. “Dunderhead,” he murmured.
Abby sighed. “He means well.”
“Most meddlers do.” The latest visitor paused on the parlor threshold; Adrian frowned. “Who the devil’s this?”
The gentleman located Abby and quickly came forward, a wide smile creasing his face. He wore a floppy navy silk bow in place of a cravat. His loose coat was as ill fitting as Adrian’s was elegant.
Swallowing another sigh, Abby held out her hand. “Good afternoon, Mr. Potts.”
Ignatius Potts clasped her hand warmly. “My dear Miss Abigail.”
“Allow me to present you to Viscount Dere. His lordship is staying with us for the present.”
“So I heard.” Mr. Potts’s cheeriness evaporated. He eyed Adrian narrowly while returning his nod. “The storm…It was a few days ago, wasn’t it?”
Adrian smiled. Wolfishly.
“I rather loose track of the days, y’know,” Potts ingenuously admitted. “Don’t know if Miss Abigail has mentioned, but I’m a painter. Landscapes, of course,” he quickly added as if Adrian might imagine he painted flowers like Abby. “Vistas of the moor—all the power and passion of the wilds, that sort of thing. Sells quite well, if I do say so myself.”
Adrian merely raised his brows politely; Abby gave thanks. Bellevere housed a huge collection of moor landscapes, many of them highly prized. Adrian had seen the moor all his life, through artists’ eyes as well as his own.
“Incidentally, my dear”—Potts turned to her—“I’m still very keen to view your studio. Perhaps today—”
“I really couldn’t leave all these guests, Mr. Potts.” Eyes wide, Abby glanced at Adrian.
“But once they leave—”
“Actually, Potts, I’m looking to refurbish Bellevere.” Adrian frowned consideringly; he suddenly had Potts’s complete attention. “I’m not sure how many of the old pictures will still be presentable—” As if just recalling Abby standing between them, Adrian smiled charmingly at her. “Pardon my manners, my dear, but if you’ll excuse us, I believe Mr. Potts should tell me more of his work.”
Abby was torn between kissing Adrian for saving her, and warning him not to buy any of
“Indeed?” Arching a brow, Adrian turned to Abby. “It seems, my dear, that in light of your established habits, Kilby no longer deems you a lady.”
Abby suppressed her gasp and fought not to laugh; Adrian’s amber eyes audaciously quizzed her, daring her to grasp the opportunity to put Kilby in his place. She knew she shouldn’t encourage Adrian—God only knew how outrageous he might become—but she couldn’t resist. Drawing herself up, she looked censoriously at Kilby.
He had paled. His gaping mouth closed, then opened again. “That isn’t what I meant!” he eventually got out.
“Isn’t it?” Adrian turned his devilish gaze on him. “I must admit it seems a long bow. Abby—Miss Woolley—has been riding the moor since she could sit a pony. So have I. No one’s yet suggested such an activity tarnishes my claims to gentility—I don’t see why it should affect hers.”
Mr. Kilby drew in a long breath. “I meant,” he said, “that it’s dangerous for a lady to ride the moor, especially with snow on the ground.”
“As to danger,” Adrian drawled, “it’s been my observation over many years that Miss Woolley knows the moor as well as I, which is to say a great deal better than most. And as she doesn’t go out collecting specimens between the first freeze and early spring, there seems little call for your concern, sir.”
Stiff before, Kilby was now rigid. “All ladies need to be protected—”
“Especially from gentlemen who fail to appreciate them.” Adrian inclined his head. “My sentiments exactly.”
Kilby nearly choked. High color suffusing his face, he bowed stiffly. “If you’ll excuse me?”
Abby regally inclined her head. Adrian merely watched as the squire stalked from the room. “Dunderhead,” he murmured.
Abby sighed. “He means well.”
“Most meddlers do.” The latest visitor paused on the parlor threshold; Adrian frowned. “Who the devil’s this?”
The gentleman located Abby and quickly came forward, a wide smile creasing his face. He wore a floppy navy silk bow in place of a cravat. His loose coat was as ill fitting as Adrian’s was elegant.
Swallowing another sigh, Abby held out her hand. “Good afternoon, Mr. Potts.”
Ignatius Potts clasped her hand warmly. “My dear Miss Abigail.”
“Allow me to present you to Viscount Dere. His lordship is staying with us for the present.”
“So I heard.” Mr. Potts’s cheeriness evaporated. He eyed Adrian narrowly while returning his nod. “The storm…It was a few days ago, wasn’t it?”
Adrian smiled. Wolfishly.
“I rather loose track of the days, y’know,” Potts ingenuously admitted. “Don’t know if Miss Abigail has mentioned, but I’m a painter. Landscapes, of course,” he quickly added as if Adrian might imagine he painted flowers like Abby. “Vistas of the moor—all the power and passion of the wilds, that sort of thing. Sells quite well, if I do say so myself.”
Adrian merely raised his brows politely; Abby gave thanks. Bellevere housed a huge collection of moor landscapes, many of them highly prized. Adrian had seen the moor all his life, through artists’ eyes as well as his own.
“Incidentally, my dear”—Potts turned to her—“I’m still very keen to view your studio. Perhaps today—”
“I really couldn’t leave all these guests, Mr. Potts.” Eyes wide, Abby glanced at Adrian.
“But once they leave—”
“Actually, Potts, I’m looking to refurbish Bellevere.” Adrian frowned consideringly; he suddenly had Potts’s complete attention. “I’m not sure how many of the old pictures will still be presentable—” As if just recalling Abby standing between them, Adrian smiled charmingly at her. “Pardon my manners, my dear, but if you’ll excuse us, I believe Mr. Potts should tell me more of his work.”
Abby was torn between kissing Adrian for saving her, and warning him not to buy any of
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