Page 13 of An Enchanting Dare

“Providing you actually listen to the answer,” Villen said dryly. “Ignore the lady’s opinion at your peril. She likely knows a deal more about the subject than you do.”

“Wouldn’t be hard,” Barnaby replied ruefully as the carriage halted. He peered out of the window. “Best get out here, my friends. Looks like the place is heaving. We’ll be quicker on foot now.”

As Barnaby had suggested, the gallery was a popular venue today, with the great and the good out to enjoy their fill of culture. The audience stared up and up at the myriad paintings sky hung all around the high walls, but the three men were more intent on their quarry than any art appreciation. It took them the best part of an hour to track down Lady Millicent, but she was here amongst the throng.

Sylvester regarded the lady with interest. She was a delicate, fair-haired creature, not beautiful by any stretch, but she had a sweet countenance. Her blue eyes shone with warmth, and she carried herself with such an air of good-natured amiability that he could see why Barnaby esteemed her.

“Dash it all. Now I’m nervous,” Barnaby fretted, taking off his hat and running a hand through his hair so it stood up on end.

The comte tsked at him and made him smooth it down again.

“Do I look as I ought, Louis?” he asked, giving the comte an anxious glance.

Instead of brushing the question off impatiently, the comte looked him over, tweaked his cravat a little and gave a reassuring nod. “Very handsome, Barnaby. Exactly how you ought. You are ready, mon ami. Now, go over and bid the lady a good day and ask her how she is enjoying the exhibition. Ask her which is her favourite painting so far. If she has one, say, Oh, I do not believe I have seen that one, where might I find it? And with luck, she will offer to show you herself. Then, follow the rules which you have learned so carefully.”

“How do. Enjoying the exhibition. Favourite painting,” Barnaby recited obediently. “Right ho. I… I suppose I’ll… er….”

The comte gave him a little push. “Allez.”

“Yes. Yes, here I go.” Barnaby swallowed hard, his complexion that of a three-day-old milk pudding. “Wish me luck.”

The comte watched him go, looking quite as anxious as Barnaby.

“One raises them, does what one can, and then one day they’re all grown up and ready to fly the nest,” Sylvester said with a dramatic sigh.

The comte slanted a look at him but said nothing.

“She’s smiling,” Sylvester observed a moment later.

“Oui, but he’s nervous. Wiping sweaty palms on one's trousers is not a good look,” Villen muttered. “Allez, Barnabé. Tu peux le faire.”

The two of them watched, with Sylvester feeling almost as anxious as the comte, who seemed to be deeply invested in the outcome.

“Do you have money riding on this?” Sylvester asked out of curiosity.

“Non!” The man looked indignant at the idea. “I am… a romantic. I wish to see him succeed.”

Sylvester felt his mouth kick up in surprise. “A romantic?”

The comte gave a little huff of laughter, not taking his eyes from Barnaby and Lady Millicent. “This surprises you?”

There was a tone to the man’s voice that urged caution, but Sylvester had never been much good at heeding that. “Yes, I suppose so. You’re rather notorious among the widows and neglected wives of the ton.”

“I have never interfered in a happy marriage, nor would I, and if ever I marry, I shall honour my lady and my vows. So, yes, a romantic. I believe in love, and I wish for my friend to have it as much as I wish it for myself. I am sorry if that does not fit with your view of my reputation.”

His voice was icy, and Sylvester knew he’d touched a nerve. He hurried to make amends.

“I apologise, monsieur. I truly meant no insult. I hope you will forgive my clumsy interrogation. I was merely curious, but I am afraid I have never been adept at polite conversation. A lady once told me I was the most vexing man that ever lived,” he added ruefully, hoping he had not caused a rift between them. He did not know the man well but liked him and would regret causing offence.

The comte turned back to him, studying him intently for a long moment. “Apology accepted. Who said you were the most vexing man that ever lived?”

Sylvester grinned. “Lady Aisling Baxter.”

“Ah. The sweetheart, by any chance?” the Frenchman suggested, proving he not only paid attention but was as well versed in affairs of the heart as everyone said.

“The very same. Does that mean you believe I have cause to hope, Monsieur?” Sylvester replied. “I confess I have little else to go on for the lady does not appear to enjoy my company overly.”

“It is a reaction, at least. Better than being ignored. Oh!” The comte clutched Sylvester’s arm. “Regardez ça!”