tomorrow.
So she gave in with a regal nod, laying her hand on his arm. As they turned and began to stroll around the edge of the dancers, Irene nodded at one or two of the women watching them. She could feel Lord Radbourne's muscles like iron beneath the sleeve of his jacket, and it startled her to find that the fact stirred a warmth in her.
"Lady Haughston intimated that you wished to meet me," Irene began in her usual direct way. This approach, she had found long ago, was the easiest method of deflecting any man's interest in her. It was unladylike, with none of the flirtation and deception that marked the common course of interaction between men and women.
"That is true," he replied.
She shot him an annoyed look. "I cannot imagine why."
"Can you not?" He looked at her again with an expression of faint amusement, an expression that Irene realized she quite disliked.
"No, I cannot. I am twenty-five years of age and have been on the shelf for quite some time."
"You assume my interest in you is matrimonial?" he countered.
Irene felt a flush rise in her cheeks. "I just told you, I cannot imagine what your interest in me is. However, I have rarely found that men had any interest in spinsters."
"Perhaps I merely wished to renew our acquaintance."
"What?" Irene turned her head to look at him, startled. She had thought there was something familiar about him, and the feeling tugged at her again. "What do you mean?"
"We have met before. Do you not remember?"
Her interest was thoroughly caught now, and she studied his face, scarcely noticing as they stepped through one of the open doors onto the terrace.
"Let me refresh your memory," he said, leading her toward the hip-high stone wall that edged the terrace. "At the time, you tried to shoot me."
She dropped her hand from his arm and turned to face him. "What in the world are you—"
Suddenly the memory fell into place. It had been years—surely almost ten. She had heard a fracas downstairs in the entry and had gone to look into it. She had found this man punching her father, and she had stopped the fight by firing a shot from one of her father's dueling pistols into the air.
"You!" she exclaimed.
"Yes. Me." He looked back at her levelly.
"I did not try to shoot you," Irene told him caustically. "I fired over your head to get your attention. If I had tried to shoot you, you would be dead."
She expected him to turn on his heel and leave her at that remark, but to her surprise, he let out a short bark of laughter. His face shifted and changed, his eyes lightening with amusement, and he was suddenly so handsome that her breath caught in her throat. The heat that flooded her cheeks this time was not from embarrassment.
"Well, I am glad to see that you bear me no ill will," she said tartly, to cover her odd and unsettling reaction. She turned and strolled away from him along the stone wall.
A little to her surprise, he kept pace with her, saying, "It was natural, was it not, for a child to protect her father? I could scarcely blame you."
"Since you apparently knew my father, I imagine you know that he was little deserving of protection."
Radbourne shrugged. "What one deserves has little to do with the relationship between parent and child, I would think."
"My father would have told you that I was an unnatural child."
He looked at her. "You stopped me from hurting him any further, did you not?"
"Yes. I did." She did not look at him, instead turning her gaze out over the garden. She had no interest in discussing her father or her feelings toward him. "Still, I see little reason why you should wish to meet someone who held a gun on you."
"I was finished with Lord Wyngate, anyway. I had made my point to him." He paused, turning his own attention toward the garden. "But you seemed ... interesting."
Irene turned to him. "I fired a shot at you and you found it interesting?"
The smile tugged at the corners of his mouth again. "It was over my head. Remember?"
She
So she gave in with a regal nod, laying her hand on his arm. As they turned and began to stroll around the edge of the dancers, Irene nodded at one or two of the women watching them. She could feel Lord Radbourne's muscles like iron beneath the sleeve of his jacket, and it startled her to find that the fact stirred a warmth in her.
"Lady Haughston intimated that you wished to meet me," Irene began in her usual direct way. This approach, she had found long ago, was the easiest method of deflecting any man's interest in her. It was unladylike, with none of the flirtation and deception that marked the common course of interaction between men and women.
"That is true," he replied.
She shot him an annoyed look. "I cannot imagine why."
"Can you not?" He looked at her again with an expression of faint amusement, an expression that Irene realized she quite disliked.
"No, I cannot. I am twenty-five years of age and have been on the shelf for quite some time."
"You assume my interest in you is matrimonial?" he countered.
Irene felt a flush rise in her cheeks. "I just told you, I cannot imagine what your interest in me is. However, I have rarely found that men had any interest in spinsters."
"Perhaps I merely wished to renew our acquaintance."
"What?" Irene turned her head to look at him, startled. She had thought there was something familiar about him, and the feeling tugged at her again. "What do you mean?"
"We have met before. Do you not remember?"
Her interest was thoroughly caught now, and she studied his face, scarcely noticing as they stepped through one of the open doors onto the terrace.
"Let me refresh your memory," he said, leading her toward the hip-high stone wall that edged the terrace. "At the time, you tried to shoot me."
She dropped her hand from his arm and turned to face him. "What in the world are you—"
Suddenly the memory fell into place. It had been years—surely almost ten. She had heard a fracas downstairs in the entry and had gone to look into it. She had found this man punching her father, and she had stopped the fight by firing a shot from one of her father's dueling pistols into the air.
"You!" she exclaimed.
"Yes. Me." He looked back at her levelly.
"I did not try to shoot you," Irene told him caustically. "I fired over your head to get your attention. If I had tried to shoot you, you would be dead."
She expected him to turn on his heel and leave her at that remark, but to her surprise, he let out a short bark of laughter. His face shifted and changed, his eyes lightening with amusement, and he was suddenly so handsome that her breath caught in her throat. The heat that flooded her cheeks this time was not from embarrassment.
"Well, I am glad to see that you bear me no ill will," she said tartly, to cover her odd and unsettling reaction. She turned and strolled away from him along the stone wall.
A little to her surprise, he kept pace with her, saying, "It was natural, was it not, for a child to protect her father? I could scarcely blame you."
"Since you apparently knew my father, I imagine you know that he was little deserving of protection."
Radbourne shrugged. "What one deserves has little to do with the relationship between parent and child, I would think."
"My father would have told you that I was an unnatural child."
He looked at her. "You stopped me from hurting him any further, did you not?"
"Yes. I did." She did not look at him, instead turning her gaze out over the garden. She had no interest in discussing her father or her feelings toward him. "Still, I see little reason why you should wish to meet someone who held a gun on you."
"I was finished with Lord Wyngate, anyway. I had made my point to him." He paused, turning his own attention toward the garden. "But you seemed ... interesting."
Irene turned to him. "I fired a shot at you and you found it interesting?"
The smile tugged at the corners of his mouth again. "It was over my head. Remember?"
She
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