“Lord Redver, have you nothing to add?” Lady Asquith asked him.
His head snapped to Lady Asquith. He stared blankly. Last time he’d been aware, Miss Cassandra, Caroline, and Lady Asquith had been speaking about fashion.
Miss Wainwright jumped in to save him. “I can’t imagine Lord Redver ruminates over shades of green, Godmama.”
“A shame,” Lady Asquith replied. She turned to Adrian. “If you cannot add to the conversation, why don’t you be so good as to take a stroll with Eliza?”
Eliza. His gaze settled on her and softened. He liked her given name. Shortened from Elizabeth, he supposed.
She cast a baffled glance at her godmother before rising to meet him. She declined his arm but strolled close enough beside him for their shoulders to occasionally brush.
While he was acutely aware of every accidental contact, she appeared oblivious. On the other hand, she did nothing to increase the distance between them.
“Your plan appears to be working.” Eliza broke the silence.
“My plan?”
“To dazzle Godmama.”
“Is it?” He glanced back over his shoulder. “Doubtful.” He sighed in an exaggerated fashion. “If only I were Spanish fly.”
“A Spanish—” She interrupted herself with a musical laugh. “You’re referring to the shade of green, aren’t you?”
He liked her laughter. He liked having made her laugh even more.
She squinted one eye. “Oh, please. If anything, you’re olive.”
“Do you mean to wound me?” He clutched his heart. “I warn you—I’ll accept nothing short of rifle.”
She nudged his shoulder with her own, this time, on purpose.
He wanted to preserve the moment…stuff his pockets with the puffed up, giddy feeling, so that, in some dark future when she’d moved on to her secret betrothed, he could take out the memory and lighten his mood.
He studied her face, against the background of grass and water. “Sage, I think, would bring out your features. Or Willow…like the dress you were wearing last night.”
She blushed becomingly. “Observant.”
Even more satisfactory than making her laugh? Making her blush.
“The sparkling buds were a nice touch.”
She glanced at him suspiciously. Then she shrugged. “What can I say? I do love a touch of sparkle.”
Touch of sparkle. Something stirred in the back of his mind, but before he could place the memory, a bird trilled in a nearby tree.
He found the source of the song—a small, male blackbird perched on a nearby branch, his feathers puffed out against the cold. A blackbird.
How odd.
Coincidence? Most certainly.
Suddenly, however, it occurred to him that if he could combine the Blackbird’s fearless, passionate curiosity with Miss Wainwright’s blend of humor and conversational gifts he’d—well, hell—he’d likely propose on the spot.
“What are you staring at?” she asked.
“I’m not staring, I’m listening.”
The bird picked at his feathers. Then, he lifted his beak, trilled again, paused to cock his head and blink. Then, he delivered a long series of low, mournful phrases.
