“He doesn’t have a valet, my lord. He’s an academician. And that’s not what the wordsquidgymeans.”
“What does it mean?”
“Damp, wet, or clammy.”
“How do you know that is not precisely what I meant?”
Harriet rolled her eyes. It bothered her to hear words used without precision. “His nose is—”
“Unfavorable, infelicitous, feeble?”
“His nose is fine!”
Alexander grimaced. “Hardly what one wants to hear about such a dominating feature.”
Harriet reached out to grab the pamphlet back, but he pulled it out of her reach. He held it aloft and took one last disdainful look at the man, and then handed it back over, along with her reticule.
She sighed with gratitude.
“Need something to help you at night?” he asked, with a wink.
Alexander expected her to be horrified. Instead, Harriet looked confused at the remark, which made him altogether more intrigued than he ought to be. He was saved from deciding where to take the scintillating topic when the carriage hit a rut, sending her book, pencil, and reticule flying. The contents of the purse scattered across the floor; hairpins, hard candies, and dozens of scraps of paper littered the carriage.
Harriet bent to collect her scattered possessions, wedging herself on the floor of the carriage on her hands and knees to reach under her seat.
Alexander doubted she had any idea how enticing her bottom looked in that position. He lazily reached under his own bench to retrieve some of her errant papers, his eyes remaining faithfully glued to her arse. He was to marry the chit, after all. This might be themostappropriate gander he’d leveled at a woman’s backside, all things considered.
Alexander brought his arm back up from its fishing expedition under the bench. He rather felt he’d been playing a parlor game. He set his goods on the bench next to him and began sorting them out.
“Look! I have won …” He picked up the scraps of paper and began reading out loud. “‘Shag’!” He flipped over another. “‘Ladybird’?” And then: “Bloody hell!”
“Bloody hellisnotone of my words,” she responded in a muffled voice, still reaching for something under her own seat.
“No, this is far worse.”
“They’rewords. They’re not bad,” she muttered. She seemed offended at what he’d said, although he had no idea why. The word he’d just read was far filthier than anything he’d said. “A word can’t be bad! It simply exists!”
He smiled. She was defending the words.
“I assure you, Miss Bancroft, that this word is very bad indeed.”
“Which is it?” She sat back up on her knees and reached over, trying to grab the paper out of his hand even as Alexander tucked it into his lapel pocket, betting she wasn’t bold enough to risk touching him there. The bet paid off and he found himself smirking again.
It had been ages since he’d smiled so much outside of a bedroom or ballroom. Then again, he couldn’t think of the last time he’d been around a woman for this long. Women were like brandy—dangerous after a couple hours or a couple helpings.
She brushed the loose strands of her chestnut hair out of her face in frustration and returned to her unknowingly lewd position. Alexander reached his arm under the seat again, in case somethingwas still underneath or, if he were honest, in case the position afforded him an even better view of her.
His half-hearted search proved fruitful when his fingers grazed a pair of spectacles. He’d never seen her with them on. Or if he had, he hadn’t noticed. Was she vain about her appearance? Did she only need them for reading? Had she been teased? His heart gave a peculiar squeeze imagining that.
As Harriet finally returned to her seat after doing the lion’s share of the cleanup, Alexander leaned over to gently place the glasses on her face. She flinched as he did, ducking out of his reach. He pulled back, frowning.
“You can wear them in front of me, you know.”
“No, I—”
“Spectacles can be quite attractive, I’ve always thought,” he ventured. “Are they for reading?”
“They’re for objects farther in the distance, my lord,” she said, smiling slyly. Why did he feel she was trying not to laugh at him?
