“On the contrary, all the great ladies of courtly literature have gray eyes. Arthur’s Guinevere. Petrarch’s Laura. They were thought the epitome of beauty.”
Now that was laughable, that Henrietta might possess any feature that came close to the appellation of beauty. “But only when paired with blonde hair, a dainty manner, and a white?—”
She almost said “bosom,” but one did not discuss bosoms with a gentleman, particularly not a dissolute roué who must have seen thousands of them. Suddenly overconscious of her own deficiencies in that area, Henrietta moved on to the next display, a death mask.
He would tire of the exchange soon; he had nothing to gain by ruining her. She was not in possession of great beauty, nor great wit, nor great wealth. Whether or not he was as dreadful as portrayed, she still could not be seen as the target of seduction.
His eyes flared. He knew exactly what she had been about to say.
“I have told you my interest. Now you must tell me yours. Art? History? You knew something of the chapel when we met earlier.”
When he had offered her assistance for which she had not yet properly thanked him. She could not be boorish when he had saved her from disgracing herself and her entire family before the Queen. Her foot still smarted from stepping on a pin in the hem of her train.
“I too am a mere dilettante, sad to say.”
“I suppose you shall try to convince me your accomplishments are no more than the average young lady’s. Music, drawing, a smattering of French?”
“French, German, Italian, Latin, and Greek,” she could not resist saying. “Well, a little Greek. I am slow at reading.”
“Italian?”
“So I might read Dante in the original.” Charley had promised that discussing books would send potential suitors running, but here he still stood, Lord Daring in the flesh. Strong, masculine flesh.
“TheCommedia? How did that go?”
“Slowly. I bogged down in theParadisoand never finished. Beatrice is so very…virtuous.”
He laughed. It was a deep, splendid sound, pure and unfettered, and several heads in the room turned in their direction. Panic unfurled along with the bloom of pleasure in her chest at the sound of that laugh. She was speaking with him! Alone! She had been warned not to encourage him. Would the Daughters of Minerva think her ruined already?
“Every woman alive wants to be Beatrice, or at least have her power over a man,” he said, his expression amused and—of course not intrigued. Not by her. “You are a very unusual woman, Miss Wardley-Hines. From, it seems, a rather interesting family.”
His eyes drifted across the room to Marsibel, and Henrietta’s suspicions flared. She had not rescued Marsi from Pinochle to deliver her to a different debaucher.
“Lord Daring—” She caught herself. That was not his name. She gripped her skirts to pull herself together. “Lord Darien. You rendered me a service this afternoon for which I am deeply grateful. But I will be in the basket if my brother catches me conversing with a man who is a stranger to us. I’m afraid I must bid you good day.”
Fool!It was far too late to wish someone good day. Further proof he had addled her wits.
“Of course. I should have realized.” He gave her a stiff, formal bow. “Allow me to hope we will meet again. Perhaps I shall see you and your cousin riding in the park tomorrow.”
It was what all the fashionable young ladies did, and Marsibel had tried once or twice to take them on an airing. But Marsibel was not a strong rider, and if Henrietta were to be in a carriage, she preferred driving herself to a specific destination. “No,” she said, “I am visiting the parish workhouse tomorrow.”
Dark brows drew down over those magnificent eyes. “The workhouse is hardly the place for a young lady.”
“It is hardly the place for anyone, and yet far more people find themselves there than should be,” Henrietta replied, stung. She had forgotten that Lord Daring was an aristocrat. He might be the most elegant, amusing, intelligent, well-looking man she had ever met, but he was also born to privilege and the aristocrat’s belief that anyone in poverty had brought it upon themselves through laziness or weakness of character. The reminder was a refreshing dash of cold water.
“Goodevening, Lord Darien,” she said politely and compressed her panniers so she did not knock over any displays, nor trip and pitch into his arms again. Once was enough.
“Before you leave, Miss Wardley-Hines…I have something of yours I feel obliged to return to you.”
He slid one of those strong, firm-fingered hands inside his coat, pushing aside his impeccably tied cravat, and held something out to her.
It was an ostrich feather, white, broken at the tip. The soft down waved gently in the air.
“How did you come by this?” she whispered.
“It parted ways with your headdress at the Queen’s levee. I took the liberty of retrieving it.”
She balanced the delicate item in her gloved hand, hefting its weight, which was nothing. “But how can you be sure it was mine? Every girl there was wearing ostrich feathers.”
