Page 22 of Gentleman Jim

“Tell me then. Are you and I at point nonplus? I certainly hope not. I’ve very much been looking forward to claiming my first forfeit.”

She proceeded to smooth her other glove. “I didn’t think you were serious about any of that. The forfeits, I mean. Indeed, for the last three days I…” She hesitated before continuing. “For the last three days, I’ve assumed you were making sport of me.”

St. Clare’s brows snapped together. “I wasn’t. Nor would I ever.”

“You say that, but—”

“Miss Honeywell, if you don’t stop fidgeting with your gloves and look at me, I shall be compelled to take your hand and hold it in mine.”

Her eyes shot to his. “You wouldn’t dare.”

St. Clare was gratified to see the return of her temper. “Try me.”

She folded her hands primly in her lap. “Satisfied?”

“Not by a long chalk. Now tell me, in earnest, will you come for a drive with me in the park tomorrow afternoon? I have a new curricle and the finest team of bays you’ve ever seen. It would be my pleasure to put them through their paces for you.”

“What makes you think any such thing would appeal to me?”

“Would it not?”

“For all you know I may be frightened of horses.”

His lips twitched. “You? Afraid of horses?”

“I might be.”

“All horses? Even match-bays? With faultless shoulders and first-rate legs?”

At his coaxing tone, the corner of her mouth trembled. But she didn’t smile. Instead, she cast him a thoroughly reproving glance. “Are you inviting me, my lord, or are you calling in a forfeit?”

“Whatever is necessary,” he answered.

She exhaled a breath. “You needn’t waste a forfeit. An invitation will do.” She added quickly, “But only because I’d like to see your cattle.”

“Naturally.” His heart thumped heavily. “I shall come for you at five if that’s agreeable.”

“It is. Thank you, my lord.”

“What a crush it is out there!” George Trumble entered the box. “Oh, I say! Didn’t know anyone else was here.” He handed a glass of lemonade to Miss Honeywell and another to Miss Trumble. “Everything all right, m’dear?”

“Perfectly,” Miss Trumble replied. “George, you’ve met Lord Mattingly, I presume? And Lord St. Clare? They’ve been keeping us company for the interval.”

St. Clare and Mattingly both rose and made their bows to him.

“Couldn’t resist coming to pay our respects to Miss Trumble and Miss Honeywell,” Mattingly said.

“I’m obliged to you,” Trumble replied.

“We were just about to take our leave. I’m afraid we’ve been neglecting the ladies in our own box, haven’t we, St. Clare?”

“Whereabouts are you sitting?” Miss Trumble asked.

“Straight across the way. One tier above and a little to the right.”

Miss Trumble raised her opera glasses. “Oh! Is that Miss Steele I see? She’s quite the belle of the season, I understand.”

“Brought my sister, Astrid, too,” Mattingly said. “The young lady in the front. She’s fresh from the schoolroom, you know.”