Page 26 of The Lady Knows Best

“I would never—”

Daphne spoke over him. “How refreshing for a man of your . . . experience. There must be very few things of which that can be said.”

In fact, he’d chosen the music out of kindness, misguided though the act might have been. Because he’d felt certain it would be familiar to her. Because he’d thought it might invoke the comforts of playing at home, instead of before an audience of nearly a hundred curious onlookers.

All of whom were surely watching this exchange with interest.

Both he and Daphne were breathing hard, as if they’d run a footrace around Grosvenor Square. Contempt flashed in her gaze. Until last night, he had not realized that it was possible for someone to have irises of that precise steely shade, capable of making the phrase looking daggers something less than figurative.

And he—well, it was all he could do to keep himself from pulling her into his arms and reminding her of their private duet in Estley’s study, not half an hour before. He did not know if he’d ever understand what she wanted from this “courtship” she had demanded.

But when he looked deeper into her eyes, he knew she had not forgotten their kiss.

Her sister, Lady Ashborough, stood. “Forgive us, Lord Deveraux, but it’s late, and I believe we must go home.”

The marchioness swiftly led her younger sisters from the drawing room, pausing only to make their excuses to their host and hostess. Miles sank into one of the chairs they’d abandoned and watched them leave.

In the row in front of him, Lord Manwaring, almost the only other gentleman of Miles’s age in attendance, tipped his head to whisper something to his stepmother, Lady Stalbridge. Then the pair of them enjoyed a low laugh—undoubtably at Miles’s expense.

When he thought of what might have happened if Daphne’s sister hadn’t stepped between them . . .

Good God. Had he been bewitched?

Daphne’s proposal had made it certain he would win his wager.

But if he weren’t more careful, he’d lose whatever wits he had.

CHAPTER 9

“Sooo.” Miles stretched the word, the preface to a question to which he already knew the answer. “What’s on your calendar for today?”

He and Alistair were seated in Alistair’s library, so named because of the single bookcase behind the door. A shaft of morning sunlight revealed half-empty shelves in desperate need of being polished. It was not that Alistair did not care about books. In fact, he had an impressive collection in his house in Devonshire—almost the only impressive thing about the place, in fact. It was also not the case that Alistair was indifferent to cleanliness—the rest of this house was spotless, in keeping with his rather fastidious nature.

But he had seven sisters: two older, five younger. Even those who were already married had recourse to this house now and again. And so Alistair had declared this room—hardly a room; two comfortable chairs and a writing table almost overfilled it—off limits to feminine interference. Including housemaids. And since he did not employ a butler for his town house, and his sisters kept the only footman busy fetching, carrying, and escorting them to and fro, Alistair’s sanctuary sometimes grew a little dusty. He considered it a small price to pay for his peace of mind.

Occasionally, Miles wondered whether his friend had ever considered forbidding him access to it as well.

At present, Miles was enjoying the pot of coffee he had fetched from the breakfast room himself; Alistair was absorbed in the newspaper. From behind a wall of close-packed black type came a grunt in answer to Miles’s question. And then, a few moments later, the crisp rattle of a turned page. And finally, a sigh.

“I have to take Freddie, Georgie, and Harry to the Duchesses’ Garden Party,” Alistair said before turning another page. The garden party was a much-anticipated annual event sponsored by the Duchess of Raynham, a noted botanist, and her mother-in-law, the dowager duchess. “My nose will be stopped up for a week.” Flowers did not agree with him.

Ladies Georgiana, Frederica, and Harriet Haythorne were Alistair’s youngest sisters. Harriet, in fact, was still in the schoolroom but managed to finagle her way into more than a few outings simply because, after fifteen years of being nominally responsible for his sisters’ behavior, Alistair was too worn-out to resist.

“Oh. Well, er . . . I suppose I could escort them on your behalf,” Miles suggested.

The upper half of the sheet of newsprint sagged, revealing Alistair’s skeptical expression, one brow sharpy arched. “That’s an astonishingly generous offer. What gives?”

“Can’t a fellow offer assistance to a friend?”

Alistair closed the paper and laid it, folded, upon his knee. Waiting.

Miles squirmed. “All right, all right. I suppose you’ve heard about Miss Grey?”

“Mrs. Evans by this time, I daresay,” Alistair corrected, making almost no effort at all to suppress the amused twitch of his lips.

“Very likely,” Miles conceded. “So, I got to thinking that maybe you had the right of it the other night. Maybe I ought to try for Miss Burke after all.”

“Maybe I had—? Maybe you ought—?” Alistair spluttered, sitting forward and slapping one hand against the newspaper in a noisy bid to keep it from sliding to the floor. “Did you even hear a word I said? Her brothers—”