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“I’m uncertain as to whether it would be prudent,” Lady Diana was saying.
His head snapped up. “I beg your pardon?”
Annoyance flashed in her eyes, but otherwise her demeanor remained unruffled. “I said it might not be prudent to create an open passage between our properties. The servants are sure to talk of it, and once it becomes public knowledge…”
The pointed look she leveled at him reminded him of nothing so much as a strict governess chastising a charge. “I would not have thought you to care so much for gossip,” he quipped, raising a brow at her in challenge.
Again, the faint tinge of roses appeared in her cheeks. Again, not the reaction of a courtesan.
“I worry not for my good name, but yours,” she replied, meeting his gaze with a raised brow of her own. “And yes, I know your reputation for wild living, but your escapades to date are the sort easily tolerated by Society.” She slid a glance to their left, where Harrow meandered the path a short distance away, then her gaze re
turned to skewer Lucas. “Ours are less so. I’m sure you’ve heard tales.”
Oh, he’d heard. “Indeed. But such rumors give no proof of veracity, especially when they originate from disgruntled former servants and the like.”
A smug expression settled across her features. “Again, you’ll never be able to decipher the reality from the fiction, unless…would you have me confirm which rumors are true and which are wild speculation?”
Now there was an interesting idea. He was almost certain to recognize it if she spoke falsely, but such would be a dangerous assumption this early in the game. Perhaps not yet. Give it a bit more time. “I would be no gentleman if I imposed upon you to reveal such intimacies.”
A soft, derisive snort escaped her, surprising him. “No gentleman would suggest keeping an open passage between his property and that of another man’s mistress.”
She had a point. “I concede the argument,” he said with a deliberate show of chagrin. “Very well. When the gate is repaired, I shall see that it is locked—and give you the key.” He would persuade her to use it later.
The startled blink she gave him was yet another incongruity. “You would give up your advantage?”
Interesting choice of words. So she views this as a game, too. “And what advantage is that, pray tell?”
Once more, her cheeks pinked at his implication. “I’d be a blind fool not to acknowledge your interest in me, Lord Blackthorn, or do you deny that you seek my favor?”
He let a slow smile curl his mouth. “While I respect Harrow enough not to outright poach, I cannot deny my interest in you. You’re a delectable contradiction: a courtesan who strikes me as more of a proper lady than any night blossom.” He knew very well his turn of phrase narrowly skirted the edge of propriety. He who risks naught gains naught.
Right on cue, the rosy stain in her cheeks deepened. When she spoke, her tone was the morning frost. “I was once a ‘proper lady,’ as you put it. Old habits are slow to perish.” At once, her manner shifted back to mischief. “Give me but a few more years of roasting at the brink of hellfire’s flames, however, and I’m certain I’ll be able to satisfy even your wicked expectations.”
The tension seated in his gut twisted a little tighter. Was she flirting with him? Surely not, what with her protector so near? He decided to err on the side of caution and keep the banter light. “I have no expectations, madam,” he said, giving her his easiest smile. “I learned long ago to assume nothing when it comes to women. For all I know, you may decide to seduce Prinny—or join a convent.”
It earned him an honest laugh. The sight all but robbed his lungs of air. The curve of her mouth in laughter was perfection, the lift of her cheeks gentling her eyes with a tender light. She looked utterly angelic, a sharp contrast to the worldly-wise visage she usually wore. He could see the young woman she’d been before her tragic downfall.
Regret filled him. Had he been less focused on himself years ago when they’d first met, he might have seen her, and things might have turned out quite differently. He remembered she’d been painfully demure, declining to raise her eyes to meet his—and that had been his fault. He’d thought her a quiet little mouse unworthy of interest, and he’d passed her by without so much as a second glance. If only he’d taken a moment to politely address her and cause her to look up, he’d have been enchanted.
He was enchanted now. Years ago, she might have faded into the wainscoting, but now she was a scintillating presence impossible to ignore.
“Are you quite well, Lord Blackthorn?”
Her inquiry jarred him from his stunned reverie, and his mouth closed with a soft pop. “I…I was remembering when we were first introduced.” His ears grew unbearably hot, and he knew he must be flushed to the roots of his hair. “It was at the Cheltenham ball. You wore white flowers in your hair.”
The tightening of her face was almost imperceptible. Almost. “That was a long time ago. I am no longer that child.”
“You were no child then,” he quipped. “I, however, behaved like one. Please accept my humblest apology for my rudeness that day. I was no gentleman, or I would have made some effort at conversation and asked you to dance.” The depth of his chagrin was such that it sent another wave of heat across his face. Her gaze grew laden with some emotion. It could easily have been mistaken for regret, but he sensed more. He sensed anger. “I’m sorry to have made you recall what is doubtless an unsettling memory—”
“Not at all,” she cut in, her face smoothing once more into an expression of nonchalance. “My prior life, while not always idyllic, was one blessed with few concerns. In fact, my only task was to marry a suitable gentleman.” One shoulder lifted, and a small laugh escaped her lips. “Despite my obvious failure, I’ve managed to do quite well for myself. I want for nothing.”
Save love. Perplexed that such a thought should even cross his mind, he let out an incredulous bark of laughter. Her askance look prompted him to make up a hasty explanation for his outburst. “Which is exactly why I’ve yet to wed, myself.”
The instant it left his lips, he mentally kicked himself. “I-I mean, not that I never wish to marry, but why rush into it? I’m content with things as they are. I mean, I could. If I wanted. But I don’t. Not yet.” He was babbling. Babbling. Like an utter fool. Stop talking. Just stop.
One caramel brow had slowly risen as he’d spoken, and now a slight smile curved her lips. “One expects a gentleman to avoid the matrimonial noose for as long as possible. If one is content with one’s situation, then I certainly see no reason to alter it. Like me, you’ve found happiness in remaining unfettered.”
At this smooth handling of his blunder, Lucas’s initial assessment regarding her level of sophistication underwent swift modification. She’d learned a great deal in her two years’ exile. A great deal. “Then we are kindred spirits,” he replied with an internal wince. What is the matter with me? First blathering on like a complete idiot, and now this? How did this woman turn him into a gibbering imbecile?
