Page 11 of An Enchanting Dare

Kilbane chuckled and moved on without another word.

“Oh, I say,” Barnaby said, looking unsettled. “You’re not going, Louis?”

The comte shrugged, apparently unperturbed. Sylvester suspected he was used to such attention from both sexes. “Why not, he’s interesting at least.”

Barnaby frowned but held his tongue, though Sylvester thought it cost him to do so.

“So, what’s the plan then, Louis?” Barnaby asked once the wine had been served and they’d given their orders.

Louis moved the glass idly between long fingers, making the wine swirl in the glass before raising it to his nose. “The Royal Academy exhibition,” he said before taking a sip and closing his eyes.

He made a pleased sound and Sylvester fought an unpleasant stab of envy as he studied the fellow. Louis César looked like a damned angel fallen to earth. Would Aisling be so determined to keep him at bay if he looked like that?

“I know,” Godwin said ruefully, catching his eye. “Life ain’t fair.”

“It is not,” the comte agreed, opening his eyes and looking between them. “But why do you mention it?”

“Nothing,” Sylvester said hastily. “What’s happening at the Academy exhibition?”

“Mr Godwin is emerging from his, ah… chrysalide?” The comte snapped his fingers impatiently. “What is the word… for a butterfly before it is a butterfly?”

“Oh, chrysalis,” Sylvester supplied. “He is emerging from his chrysalis. In the new wardrobe, I take it.”

“Exactement,” the comte agreed. “It is a good place to be seen, and to talk to a young lady about art.”

“But I don’t know the least thing about art,” Godwin protested. “You can lay money I’ll say something idiotic, and she’ll think me a fool. I’m not sure this is the best idea, Louis.”

Louis tsked, shaking his head. “I will teach you enough to get by. We have time.”

Godwin looked doubtful, and the comte shrugged.

“Take my advice or don’t take it. I promised to help you, but if you don’t trust me—”

“It ain’t that!” Godwin protested, going red in the face. “Course I trust you. I-I just don’t want to let you down by making a muck of it.”

The comte smiled, proving—if proof were needed—why so many women made utter fools of themselves over him. “You won’t. I have confidence in you, Barnaby.”

Godwin flushed harder and looked ridiculously pleased by the comment. “Well. Well, I mean to say. If you think so. I’ll do my best. Swear I will.”

“I know,” the comte replied calmly and settled back with his wine.

“Who is the lady in question that you are trying so hard to impress?” Sylvester asked, curious now. “If you don’t mind me asking?”

Godwin returned a somewhat sheepish smile. “I don’t mind. As it happens, it’s Lady Millicent Fortescue. A forlorn hope, no matter Louis’ influence, I expect. She’s above my touch and I know it, but a fellow must follow his dreams, I reckon. Even if they’re out of reach. Louis believes he can help me win her, but the words ‘pig’s ear’ and ‘silk purse’ keep going around and around in my brain until my head aches.”

“The comte thinks you can do it. Looks ready to put money on it, I should say,” Sylvester said, wanting to reassure the fellow, who seemed a good-natured sort.

He was right, though. Lady Millicent was destined for a duke or a marquess, an earl at the very least. Godwin didn’t stand a chance. A depressing realisation, Sylvester had to admit, for he was likely worse off than Godwin. He too was a younger son, and with far fewer funds at his disposal. At least the fellow didn’t dirty his hands by working for a living.

“You got a sweetheart?” Godwin asked him, the question taking Sylvester by surprise.

He opened his mouth to deny it, but then Aisling’s image came to mind, with tears in her eyes when he’d told her she was beautiful.

“Yes,” he said, the honest answer escaping him before he could stop it. “Yes, I suppose I do, but my hopes are probably worse than yours.”

“Oh,” Godwin replied gloomily. “Rotten luck. Parents don’t like you, I suppose?”

Sylvester snorted and picked up his wine. “I’ve no idea. It’s the lady that hates me.”