Page 6 of Love Wasn’t Built in a Day

He could not see Henrietta’s face, hidden as it was by a large bonnet trimmed with a frivolous display of silk lilacs and roses. Gideon shook his head at the vagaries of women’s fashion. Though his brother took such things with equal seriousness. Whilst neither a Corinthian nor a dandy, Damian was always a la mode. But Gideon had never understood the ton’s fascination over whatever they were all wearing. Such silliness seemed to him to be the height of folly.

Finally, the last hymn was sung, and the Reverend Honeywell dismissed his flock. Gideon waited, allowing the elderly matron to his left to precede him at her own torturous pace as she inched her way back to the aisle. So it was that he stepped out at the precise moment Lady Henrietta drew level with him.

“Mr Bramwell, how do you do? I have not seen you here before, I think. Praying for absolution?” she suggested, her expression one of complete innocence.

Gideon repressed a smile. “Always, my lady. Though I have made it my habit to attend every Sunday, I usually sit at the back of the church.”

“Ah, yes, in order to make a hasty exit,” she said, nodding sagely, as if this were evident.

Despite himself, her raillery amused him, but he kept his features impassive. “Indeed. I was early this morning, eager to ingratiate myself with the good reverend in the hopes he would stop inviting me to tea.”

“Oh, that’s a wasted effort, I’m afraid.”

Gideon felt his eyebrows climb. “Oh?”

They walked out of the church, blinking a little in the light after so long in the gloomy interior.

She nodded, amusement glinting in her hazel eyes. It was a warm colour, rich and tinged with flecks of gold he saw now. Her thick lashes lowered, momentarily shielding them from view, but then she looked up, her gaze unnervingly direct, and for a moment he was spellbound.

“According to the Dowager Duchess of Hawkney, the Reverend has decided to rescue you. Oh, not that he has said anything of the kind—” she hurried to explain as Gideon stared at her in alarm. “This is simply the Dowager’s view of the matter. Apparently, he has a tendency to take lost sheep in hand—that’s you.”

The wretched creature bit her lip, clearly struggling not to laugh at his indignation. Gideon repressed the urge to say something cutting. He was a grown man and would not allow this little slip of a thing to undermine his composure. Not this time. He’d only have to apologise again.

“Well, I’m sure that is very… good of him,” he said dryly. “I am no lamb to be led, however, as he will discover to his cost if he insists on wasting his time. Still, you have done me a service, my lady, for now I need not lose more of my valuable time on a Sunday morning by attending services.”

She looked genuinely shocked by this, and Gideon hesitated when he might otherwise have walked away with a curt farewell, aware she was determined to speak her mind.

Glancing about them, she lowered her voice. Her tone was entirely serious.

“It is none of my affair how you conduct yourself, Mr Bramwell, but I should think twice about that. This is a small town, and appearances matter. If you will forgive my speaking frankly, people will think you proud at best, at worst—well, your brother is not exactly a shining example of respectability. They may believe you have something to hide.”

Gideon gazed at her, resentment simmering at her all too accurate summary of the situation. It was galling enough that she knew of his brother, but she was right, damn her, and she knew it too.

“But what do I know? I’m just a frivolous girl who likes to dance.” Mischief danced in her eyes, and he knew she was remembering the conversation they had shared all those months ago.

“—people dance because it is fun, because it is an opportunity to speak to someone you do not know well, and to share a moment of pleasure. Dancing with the right partner is like… like flying.”

“Ludicrous. The waltz is just an opportunity to get a pretty girl in one’s arms in public.”

How he could ever have suggested she wasn’t pretty enough to dance with, even in jest, was beyond him. The ridiculous bonnet framed her lovely face, the explosion of silk flowers a delicious compliment to her peaches and cream complexion. The breeze stirred the satiny petals, toying with the curls that remained free of the bonnet, and a tantalising scent drifted towards him. It was violet, as delicate as twilight, with something else, something he could not quite identify but made him think of summer rain.

Gideon warred with himself, unable to shake the feeling that she was playing with him, toying with him like a cat with a mouse she had no intention of eating, just for the pleasure of it. Yet her observation was sound, and he’d be a fool not to acknowledge that much.

“I thank you for the advice, my lady. I shall bear it in mind. Good day.”

“And to you, Mr Bramwell.” The words were softer this time, the faintest trace of regret audible. He shot her a last glance, wondering at it, at the wistful smile that played around her lovely mouth, before turning away and putting Lady Henrietta far, far out of his mind.

Or trying to.

“And how is your Mr Bramwell this morning?”

Hetty turned to her sister, narrowing her eyes. “He is most certainly not my Mr Bramwell.”

“Not yet,” Cilly remarked, a sly smile at her mouth.

Hetty’s cheeks warmed, which had nothing to do with the frail sunlight that was trying vainly to make its way through the clouds overhead. Not for the first time, she wished her sister did not know her quite so well.

“Not ever. He works—can you imagine Papa’s reaction to me marrying a man who must earn his keep? Never mind the connection to Viscount Rivington, who is so far from respectable Papa would cut him dead on principle.”