Page 18 of The Right to Remain Single

“Not quite that frank.”

She laughed again. Something about that kiss had made her…a little wild. She would probably regret it later, but she didn’t care. “Hmm… It must be something naughty.”

“Got it first guess.” He shrugged. “Erotic poems, mostly.”

Now she blushed. “Yes, frightfully improper. May I read some of them?” She put a hand to her lips. “I shouldn’t have asked.”

“Why not? You’re a human being with the same erotic inclinations as any other.” The gleam in his eyes was quickly snuffed by a grimace. “But it would be unacceptable of me to share them with you.”

“So frustrating,” she said, biting her lip.

“It is,” he agreed.

She was pondering this statement—frustrating for her, for him, or for them both?—when unpleasant reality intruded in the shape of her suitor, Mr. Tilson.

* * *

A shiny red coach, its yellow wheels muddied from the roads, came to a stop at the top of the drive. The groom leapt from his perch to open the door and let down the steps. A country squire with inclinations toward dandyism descended with help from the groom, straightened his coat and striped waistcoat, and smoothed the wrinkles in his mustard-colored pantaloons. The groom dove into the coach and emerged with a tall beaver hat. The gentleman set it carefully upon his head.

He waited, in a pose meant to proclaim infinite self-assurance, whilst the groom hurried forward to knock on the door.

“Good Lord,” said James.

Thomasina snickered. “Isn’t he frightful?”

“What do you want to bet that I can rid you of him today?”

“If only you could.”

“I’ll take my winnings in kisses,” he whispered.

She blushed and tried unsuccessfully to stifle a giggle. Tilson turned at the sound and spied them approaching. He frowned. Then raised supercilious brows. Finally, as if he thought better of either of these reactions, he essayed a smile.

With a sigh, Thomasina let go of James’s arm and curtsied. “Good day, Mr. Tilson.”

“Dear Miss Warren,” her suitor said, “as beautiful as always. The frosty winter air deepens the roses which ever bloom in your cheeks.”

Thomasina must be accustomed to this florid manner of speech, for she murmured, “So kind,” and submitted rigidly to an old-fashioned kiss on the hand—one which lingered far too long.

James cleared his throat, distracting Tilson long enough for Thomasina to snatch her gloved hand away and wipe it on her pelisse. The suitor frowned at James, who eyed him pensively in return.

“Terribly sorry, Mr. Blakely,” Thomasina said. “I should have introduced you. Allow me to present Mr. Tilson, our neighbor from the next village.” She turned to her suitor, who was showing signs of affront. “Mr. Blakely is a son of the Earl of Statham, who is an old friend of my father’s.”

Recognizing a social superior, Tilson bowed. “A pleasure to meet you, sir.”

James responded with the most languid of nods. “All mine, I assure you.” Martha opened the door, and James tucked Thomasina’s hand in his arm once again. “Shall we go indoors, my dear?” He steered his prize up the stairs, leaving the disappointed suitor to follow.

In the drawing room, Walt Warren, Samuel Furbelow, and Brother Antoine were drinking Madeira before a roaring fire. Furbelow was rambling on about his prowess at cricket.

“Not again,” muttered Thomasina. “He always tells this story.”

“Interestingly enough,” James said, “it’s accurate. He’s superb as both bowler and batsman.”

Walt Warren interrupted the monologue as they entered. “Tilson! Glad you’ve come.” He waved a hand in the direction of Samuel and the monk. “My nephew, Mr. Furbelow, and Brother Antoine. You’ve met Blakely, I see. He and Brother Antoine have come to rid us of the ghost. One way or another, I think we finally have a chance of success.”

Mr. Tilson cheered up. “Ah, so that explains it.” He rubbed his hands together. “What excellent news, Mr. Warren! Those who pave the way for my marriage to Miss Warren will win my eternal gratitude.”

Thomasina said nothing, but her fingers dug into James’s coat sleeve.