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Authors: Confessions of a Viscount
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showed far too many teeth.
“My fiancée was demonstrating her technique,” Alistair replied.
“So the rumors are true,” Dorian said good-naturedly. “Snared by parson’s mousetrap. And so soon.”
“But Dorian, lad, can’t you see why?” Clarke doffed his hat and held it over his heart. “Moncreiffe, had I seen her first, I vow I would have fought you for the lady’s favor.”
From the corner of his eye, Alistair watched Miss Parnell’s reaction. Judging by the amused smile on her lips, she didn’t seem to mind the interruption.
“Well, Moncreiffe, don’t keep us pining away anylonger.” Dorian removed his hat as well. “Introduce us to your lovely bride-to-be.”
Alistair cleared his throat. This was the first time in his life he’d made this particular introduction. “Miss Parnell, may I make known to you two friends and fellow astronomers, Mr. Clarke and Sir Dorian. Gentlemen, my fiancée, Miss Charlotte Parnell.” He was proud his voice remained calm.
It was amazingly easy to refer to the attractive, mysterious woman at his side as his fiancée.
“Charmed, Miss Parnell.” Clarke lifted her hand to drop a kiss on her gloved knuckles. He continued to hold her hand longer than necessary.
Alistair cleared his throat. Twice.
Clarke finally took the hint and let go. The twinkle in Miss Parnell’s eye told him she hadn’t missed his little display.
Dorian was not to be left out. “So pleased to meet the charming miss who stole Moncreiffe’s heart,” he said, just before bestowing a kiss on her knuckles as well. At least he let go promptly.
Miss Parnell took the attention in stride, gracefully acknowledging their tribute, without the preening he might have expected. She simply adjusted the reins in her grip again as soon as her hands were free.
Plenty of women had aspired to be his viscountess, banking on his future prospects, which would make his wife a marchioness and eventually a duchess. Somehow Miss Parnell seemed immune to such concerns.
But was she, really?
Or was this just more of her playacting, and she had nointention of crying off by the end of the Little Season? He had considered that possibility when they’d first entered into their agreement, but decided Miss Parnell was in earnest about outwitting her brother and had no designs on becoming a viscountess.
It was too late to second-guess himself. “I hate to be rude, gentlemen, but you’re cutting in to unchaperoned time with my fiancée.”
“And precious time that is.” Dorian set his hat back on his head.
“Aye,” Clarke seconded. “To be sure, I would not let two brigands such as ourselves waste a moment more of it.” He shoved his hat back on, bowed toward Miss Parnell from his seat in the saddle, and nudged his horse away from the phaeton.
“I do hope we’ll see much more of you in the future, Miss Parnell,” Dorian said, just before he followed Clarke back out into the crowded path.
A few carriages rumbled past the phaeton, then there was a break and Miss Parnell gave the reins a light slap, and Maxwell plodded on.
“Well, then,” Alistair said, stretching one arm along the back of the bench, not quite touching Miss Parnell’s blue velvet spencer. “What do you want to do next?”
“Wh-What do you mean?” Her fingers tightened just a bit, her thumb restlessly rubbing the leather rein.
“About Madame Melisande and Sir Nigel.”
Her fingers stilled.
“If you truly think he has nothing to do with the missing object, are you going back to following her around, or have you another plan?”
“I’m not certain yet. I haven’t had time to formulate a strategy.” She spared him a sidelong glance, her blue eyes sparkling with good humor. “I’ve been a bit distracted.”
Alistair leaned closer and lowered his voice. “I do my best,” he whispered in her ear. He was inordinately pleased with the goose bumps that instantly rose on the exposed flesh at her neck, the tiny hitch in her
“My fiancée was demonstrating her technique,” Alistair replied.
“So the rumors are true,” Dorian said good-naturedly. “Snared by parson’s mousetrap. And so soon.”
“But Dorian, lad, can’t you see why?” Clarke doffed his hat and held it over his heart. “Moncreiffe, had I seen her first, I vow I would have fought you for the lady’s favor.”
From the corner of his eye, Alistair watched Miss Parnell’s reaction. Judging by the amused smile on her lips, she didn’t seem to mind the interruption.
“Well, Moncreiffe, don’t keep us pining away anylonger.” Dorian removed his hat as well. “Introduce us to your lovely bride-to-be.”
Alistair cleared his throat. This was the first time in his life he’d made this particular introduction. “Miss Parnell, may I make known to you two friends and fellow astronomers, Mr. Clarke and Sir Dorian. Gentlemen, my fiancée, Miss Charlotte Parnell.” He was proud his voice remained calm.
It was amazingly easy to refer to the attractive, mysterious woman at his side as his fiancée.
“Charmed, Miss Parnell.” Clarke lifted her hand to drop a kiss on her gloved knuckles. He continued to hold her hand longer than necessary.
Alistair cleared his throat. Twice.
Clarke finally took the hint and let go. The twinkle in Miss Parnell’s eye told him she hadn’t missed his little display.
Dorian was not to be left out. “So pleased to meet the charming miss who stole Moncreiffe’s heart,” he said, just before bestowing a kiss on her knuckles as well. At least he let go promptly.
Miss Parnell took the attention in stride, gracefully acknowledging their tribute, without the preening he might have expected. She simply adjusted the reins in her grip again as soon as her hands were free.
Plenty of women had aspired to be his viscountess, banking on his future prospects, which would make his wife a marchioness and eventually a duchess. Somehow Miss Parnell seemed immune to such concerns.
But was she, really?
Or was this just more of her playacting, and she had nointention of crying off by the end of the Little Season? He had considered that possibility when they’d first entered into their agreement, but decided Miss Parnell was in earnest about outwitting her brother and had no designs on becoming a viscountess.
It was too late to second-guess himself. “I hate to be rude, gentlemen, but you’re cutting in to unchaperoned time with my fiancée.”
“And precious time that is.” Dorian set his hat back on his head.
“Aye,” Clarke seconded. “To be sure, I would not let two brigands such as ourselves waste a moment more of it.” He shoved his hat back on, bowed toward Miss Parnell from his seat in the saddle, and nudged his horse away from the phaeton.
“I do hope we’ll see much more of you in the future, Miss Parnell,” Dorian said, just before he followed Clarke back out into the crowded path.
A few carriages rumbled past the phaeton, then there was a break and Miss Parnell gave the reins a light slap, and Maxwell plodded on.
“Well, then,” Alistair said, stretching one arm along the back of the bench, not quite touching Miss Parnell’s blue velvet spencer. “What do you want to do next?”
“Wh-What do you mean?” Her fingers tightened just a bit, her thumb restlessly rubbing the leather rein.
“About Madame Melisande and Sir Nigel.”
Her fingers stilled.
“If you truly think he has nothing to do with the missing object, are you going back to following her around, or have you another plan?”
“I’m not certain yet. I haven’t had time to formulate a strategy.” She spared him a sidelong glance, her blue eyes sparkling with good humor. “I’ve been a bit distracted.”
Alistair leaned closer and lowered his voice. “I do my best,” he whispered in her ear. He was inordinately pleased with the goose bumps that instantly rose on the exposed flesh at her neck, the tiny hitch in her
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