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“Nevermind what she says,” Max told his partner. “Browdie was deuced generous to confound all the other fellows’ hopes for your company. Because of him, my own lack of virtue is rewarded. If I’d been playing the proper gentleman, I’d have to sup with someone else.”
Miss Pelliston found herself more pleased than she wished to be with the way the supper issue had resolved itself. Self-annoyance made her face rather stiff as she answered, “Since taking a lady into supper is hardly a moral obligation, your argument is unsound. In the first place, you committed no crime. In the second, if you had, there are a number of ladies here whose company far better qualifies as ‘rewarding.’ Your argument for the rewards of wickedness is specious, sir,” she concluded with satisfaction.
“I’m a Sophist, am I? Oh, don’t look so amazed,” he added as her wide hazel eyes opened wider. “I learnt philosophy as well as the next chap, I suppose. Which is how I know that your logic is shaky. You don’t know a thing about those other ladies, yet you claim them more rewarding company than yourself. Shall we take a poll of the gentlemen, Miss Pelliston?”
“No, of course not. It was a pretty compliment. I would not have argued if you had not used it to defend an immoral philosophy—though I would be forced to admit that virtue is not always rewarded in this world and wickedness often is. But you see, you were merely forgetful, not wicked.”
“Then you’ll allow the pretty compliment to stand?”
She bit her lip. “I suppose I must, for you have twisted the issues so that... well, never mind. You are only trying to divert me, as her ladyship suggested, and I have no business scolding you for it.”
“Of course not. You never scolded Jack Langdon, I’m sure. Why, he spent at least ten minutes raving about you. Then he forgot all about it and wandered off to find his book. I’m amazed he didn’t have it with him when he danced with you. Often does, you know.”
“Yes, Lady Andover mentioned that he was a tad eccentric. Still, I found his comments on the Medes and Persians most intriguing, though I’m afraid my ancient history is rather weak.”
They’d reached the room where a very large number of very small tables had been set out to accommodate hungry guests. Lord Rand drew out a chair for Miss Pelliston. As she sat down, he leaned over her shoulder and said in a low voice, “I’m sure he was too busy talking himself and staring into your lovely eyes to notice your scholarly failings. Or if he did, he’s far more levelheaded than he should be. You look like a pink rose.”
Miss Pelliston turned pink enough. Lord Rand stared blankly at her for a moment before he remembered where he was and hastily took his seat beside her. Why had he uttered that revolting treacle?
He now wished he hadn’t offered to sit out the waltz with her. That would not take place until sometime after supper and he wanted out of this confounded menagerie now, before every last vestige of his common sense was stifled by etiquette.
Meanwhile, if he didn’t want her to get the wrong idea, he’d better bring the conversation into more impersonal channels.
“Miss Pelliston, you are behaving very badly,” he lightly chided.
“Why, what have I done? This is the proper spoon, I’m sure,” said Miss Pelliston, surveying her silverware in some alarm.
“You were supposed to make a clever retort to my compliment.”
“I know—but I just couldn’t think of a single thing,” she confessed with chagrin.
“I’ll think of it for you. You must warn me of your thorns.”
She considered. “Thorns—that seems apt enough. And the part about my eyes?” she asked, focusing those brilliant orbs upon him.
He leaned a hairsbreadth closer. “Yes,” he said, wondering why he felt as though he were in quicksand, “your eyes are lovely.”
“That’s what you told me,” his disciple reminded patiently. “What must I answer?”
He hauled his attention back to his plate. “Why, that they’re sharp enough to detect the wicked truths lurking behind honeyed words.”
“That sounds rather like a scold.”
“Not if you smile when you say it, and especially not if you contrive to blush at the same time. That will encourage the gentleman to declare his innocence.”
Miss Pelliston sighed. “This is very complicated.”
“Yes,” his lordship concurred, more heartily than she could know. “Very complicated. Anyhow, you’re thinking instead of eating and you’ll need sustenance if you hope to dance until dawn. We’ll talk of something less taxing, shall we? How long before I can expect Jemmy to begin lecturing me on the rise and fall of the Roman Empire?”
Relieved to turn the conversation from herself, Catherine responded with more of her usual poise, though her mind drifted elsewhere.
She thought she’d been handling his lordship’s altogether unexpected attentions with reasonable co
mposure—until he’d bent to whisper in her ear. Then she had become acutely aware of a faint scent—a mixture of soap and something woodsy and cheroots and wine.
Examined objectively, this should not be an aesthetically pleasing combination of aromas, the two latter ingredients being vivid reminders of masculine frailties. Lord Browdie always stank of tobacco and spirits and that, along with his other unfortunate personal habits, usually made her wish herself in another county when he was by.
Lord Rand aroused an altogether different response, a host of sensations so novel that she could not be certain what they were. She realised, however, that these feelings were not altogether objective. Turning gooseflesh all over and having to count to twenty to settle one’s pulse back to normal rhythm was not her idea of aesthetic detachment.
Except for ruthless exposure to most of her father’s vices, Catherine had lived a very sheltered, isolated life. She had never had a friend her own age. There was no room for sentiment or frivolity in her education. Had she not been such a voracious reader on her own, she might never have known that such a thing as flirtation existed. Any tender, silly sentiments she’d felt before had been summoned up by plays, poetry, and novels, and had always seemed to belong to a fantasy world completely unconnected with her own sober existence.
Now she began to understand—viscerally—Sophia Western’s trembling when Tom Jones was near. This was troubling. One ought not be so susceptible to a few pleasing words. If she did not keep a careful lookout, she would imagine herself in love with every gentleman who flattered her.
Lord Rand merely did what was expected at these affairs, she reminded herself. His behaviour seemed out of character only because she’d never seen him in such an environment before. Obviously, he could not have intended that she take his remarks seriously or he would not have offered to teach her how to play the game. If, at the moment, the game seemed perilous to one’s peace of mind, that was because new experiences were often unnerving. Once she mastered the necessary skills, she would go about the business as coolly as he did.
