Chapter Sixteen
Amuscle twitchedin the arm Adrian had used to hold back the curtain. His body, without conscious thought, had readied for attack.
But why?
Because Neville was gazing earnestly at Miss Eliza Wainwright and whispering something urgent? He frowned.
Was Neville her secret, potentially betrothed? Neville—conscientious, rule-following Neville—would be a terrible match for such a minx.
Miss Wainwright glanced over her shoulder and met his gaze. His muscle twitched again. She looked alarmed. Alarmed and guilty. Had she been discussing him, then?
He stepped inside the box and dropped the curtain. He didn’t care.
Or, rather, he shouldn’t care.
She was only a means to an end…the quickest way to Lady Asquith’s good graces—and, by extension, the good graces of half theton—was through her goddaughter.
Still, he’d thought they achieved a sympathetic understanding, even though she had, at first, rebuffed him. Now, he was reminded that she’d had another offer.
But from Neville?
She’d have Lord Neville for breakfast and be hungry before noon.
A young lady as vibrant as herself needed someone who’d appreciate her spirit. Someone who wouldn’t kill off that spirit by demanding she follow society’s every petty rule. Someone who would encourage her to find her own way to navigate Society’s treacherous waters.
Someone who’d help her become as formidable as her godmother.
For he’d no doubt she would, one day, be as formidable as Lady Asquith. She was made of the same stern stuff. But she’d softness, too—a softness that had appeared as compassion for his sister as well as her own.
Neville rose from his chair, and sent him a very male, very hostile glance before joining the circle around Lady Asquith.
Adrian ignored him and, instead, approached Miss Wainwright. She returned his friendly expression, albeit not quite fully. Her lips curved in what was more of a suggestion of a smile than a real one—a faint, intimate softening of her mouth that, for some reason sloshed around inside of him like a warm pint.
He must remember, like the Blackbird, she’d no interest in him.
On the other hand, he had, several times, caught her staring at his mouth, just as she was at present. Could she be attracted to him?
She was, in fact, quite fetching. Dark hair and eyes. A slightly turned up nose. A long, kissable neck. He briefly closed his eyes, halting the direction of his thoughts.
“For you.” He handed her a glass.
Her hand brushed his as she wrapped her fingers around the stem. The impression of contact remained long after he withdrew.
“You may say something nice to me now,” he prompted. He flashed a smile. “I promise I will not let a mere thank you go to my head.”
She lifted her brows. “Thank you, Lord Redver.”
Her voice reverberated through his body, familiar, but not. He almost asked her to call him Adrian. Unlike Harbury, he preferred his friends use his given name.
He did not know her, however, and they weren’t friends.
But they could be.
“My pleasure, Miss Wainwright. Was being congenial so hard?”
Her polite smile turned into an impish grin. “Excruciating.”
His stomach dropped, forcing him to take a seat. “I promise to keep my good deeds to a minimum.” He held out his hand. “Friends?”
