“You don’t know me very well,” Crispin said depreciatingly.
I didn’t know that side of him, certainly. Although if that was how he looked at all the young women who fell for him, it was hard to blame them for their reactions. In my case, of course, the effect was mitigated somewhat by the fact that it was so clearly put on. He’d never look at me like that under normal circumstances, and we both knew it. But if not for that, and for the fact that for twelve years, he had been my least favorite person in the world, I might have felt a little quiver in my own diaphragm, too.
And because that idea was abhorrent, I shuddered. “Please don’t do that to me again. That was horrible.”
He sniggered. “I’ll spare you my attentions from now on, Darling. It’s not as if you appreciate the effort, so I might as well refrain from throwing my pearls before swine.”
Swine, was it?
“Go away, St George, and take your pearls with you. And if you call me a sow one more time, I’ll slap you.”
“I didn’t—!” he began, offended, but the look on my face must have convinced him that he was better off putting some distance between us, because he got to his feet. “Very well. I’ll go keep Gladys and Florence from coming to blows, shall I?”
“Do,” I told him. “And if they start taking potshots at you, don’t expect me to come to your aid.”
“Of course not, Darling. I never do.”
He walked away. I watched, eyes narrowed, as he shared a smile between the two girls, both of whom promptly ignored the other to dimple back at him.
They’re both of the healthy, blooming variety. Florence has bouncing, brown curls, pink cheeks, and those perfectly straight, American teeth, while Gladys is a sunny blond, with blue eyes and that typical English Rose complexion. At the moment, they were both gazing up at him with shining eyes and parted lips as if he’d hung the moon—or as if they each hoped for a kiss.
“Pshaw!” I said. Not an expression I’d ever expected to use, I might add, but there’s a first time for everything, and the situation seemed to call for it.
“St George?” Christopher’s voice asked from next to me, as he dropped down on the arm of the chair where Crispin had been. It was as if they were playing musical chairs with the arm of mine. “What did he do this time?”
I glanced up at him. “Called me a pig.”
His eyes widened. “Not really?”
“Of course, really. It was all about how he wasn’t going to throw his pearls before swine—me being the swine, naturally, because I didn’t show proper appreciation for the way he decided to demonstrate his skill in seduction…”
“Is that what that was?” Christopher said, looking enlightened. “I wondered why you were looking at him like that.”
“Like what? The same way I looked at Geoffrey Marsden last month?”
Geoffrey Marsden, Lady Laetitia’s brother, had put his hand on my knee against my will and refused to budge when I tried to move away from him.
“Oh, no,” Christopher said, shaking his head. “Not like that at all. You looked at Marsden like you wanted to punch him in the nose. You looked at Crispin like you wanted to grab him by the ears and pull him down for a kiss.”
“Eeurgh!” My face twisted—I had looked at him the way Gladys and Florence did?—and Christopher smothered a chuckle.
“Don’t worry. It didn’t last long. By the time he walked away, you looked at him exactly the same way that you looked at Marsden.”
Good to know. “He’s a pig, speaking of them.”
“Marsden? Definitely.”
“Crispin,” I said. “How dare he turn his wiles on me like that?”
All right, so perhaps I might have asked for it. I won’t say that I didn’t. But still, how dare he? I certainly hadn’t asked forthatkind of demonstration.
“Well,” Christopher said apologetically, “it must be galling for the poor bloke, to have practically every girl he meets fall at his feet, while you make it clear just how much you despise him?—”
I snorted. “Yes, poor little rich boy, with his title and his fortune and his good looks. If you ask me, it’s good for him to realize that there are women who won’t come running just because he crooks his finger.”
“Well said, Miss Darling,” Uncle Harold’s voice said. I think it might have been the first time in my life—or at least in the part of my life I’ve lived since I came to stay with the Astleys—that Uncle Harold has looked upon me with approbation.
And not only that, but he put an avuncular hand on my shoulder and smiled—actually smiled—down at me. “That’s absolutely right, isn’t it? It’s a lesson every young man has to learn, that not every woman finds him irresistible.”
