“But you will fall eventually.”
She very much doubted it, but like her mother, she could put on a performance when need be. “I wish Father didn’t value marriage so much. I don’t want to disappoint him. One of his legitimate daughters snagged herself a marquess last Season. The other will soon be presented to the Queen and have her coming-out. I feel as if I’m in competition with her, have been givena head start, and shall still come in last. And I suppose I consider it as a bit of a redemption for Mum. She might not have been good enough to wed, but her daughter is.” She shook her head. “Silly, I know.”
“It’s difficult. You miss her.”
“I do.” Even with all the servants about, the residence was so incredibly quiet and lonely. Millie was always very conscious of her position in the household. Although they were close, they couldn’t go on outings together as equals. Millie viewed herself as the chaperone. Even though Mrs. Dorsett was walking along behind them now. Regina hadn’t shared a dozen words with the matronly woman, who usually communicated with only an arched eyebrow, a pursing of her lips, or a clearing of her throat. The throat-clearing reserved for the most offensive of behaviors, such as sitting too near a gentleman. Earlier that afternoon, she’d actually brought out a strip of yarn and stretched it between Regina and one of her suitors, demanding they each scoot over until it could no longer touch either of them.
Regina wasn’t certain she was cut out for proper behavior. It was so deuced boring.
She also worried she might disappoint not only her father but her husband as well. She hadn’t grown up with an example of how one should behave within a marriage and feared she might have trouble with the obedience portion.
But all her worries scattered on the wind when she caught sight of the handsome man loping on a black steed toward her. Oh, he sat a horse well. As he brought the beast to a halt, she could barely take hereyes from his thighs, hugging the creature, while his trousers hugged him. He swept his hat from his head and grinned at her. A devastating grin, the sort that could topple a woman’s resistance, burn to a cinder Mrs. Dorsett’s scrap of yarn. “Miss Leyland.”
She gave a shallow curtsy. “My lord.” Then wondered why she sounded breathless, as though she’d just finished running toward him and they’d crashed together into an embrace that would forever bind them together.
“Would you do me the honor of allowing me to stroll alongside you?”
“Yes. I’d be delighted to have you join me.”
While he dismounted, to distract herself from staring at his thighs in motion, she rubbed the horse’s muzzle and forehead. “What’s his name?”
“Shakespeare.”
With a small laugh, she looked at Knightly. In the sunlight, his eyes were such a clear, bright, and stunning blue, a hue that had been somewhat hidden in the rather dim lighting of the ballroom. She didn’t know if she’d ever seen such a remarkable shade. “I’d expected Zeus or Thunder or something a bit more warlike.”
His grin grew until it formed a small dimple in his right cheek. Oh, Lord, but she wanted to touch it. To skim her fingers, and then her lips, over it. Did every aspect of him have to call to her?
“To be honest, I read a good deal more than I fight.” He held out his arm.
As Regina reached for it, a harsh clearing of a throat stopped her movements. Turning slightly, she quicklymade introductions. He tipped his head toward the maid and chaperone. “Ladies.”
“There’s to be no touching,” Mrs. Dorsett stated sternly.
“As you wish.”
“As her father wishes.”
Knightly waved his hand before them with gentlemanly grace. “Shall we?”
Holding the reins, his hands behind his back, he had his horse trailing them and forcing her guardians to walk on either side of them. Fortunately, Millie had rushed forward to take a position on Regina’s right, leaving Mrs. Dorsett to walk on the other side of Knightly since he had claimed Regina’s left.
“She has excellent hearing,” Regina said quietly.
He glanced down at her, mirth in his eyes. “I’m not so reckless as to say anything she’ll report to your father.”
He hadn’t returned his hat to his head, and heavy locks of his hair had fallen across his brow. Her fingers ached to brush them back. “We’re being stared at.”
“I’m always being stared at. You get used to it after a time.”
“They look at you for very different reasons than they do me. They judge me, find me lacking.”
“Have they told you this?”
She blinked. “Well, no.”
“Then how do you know why they’re looking? Could be they are simply enraptured of your beauty... as I am.”
She bit back her laughter but couldn’t stop her smile. “Oh, you’re good. You’re very good.”
