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“Stay.” The quiet invitation emerged before he could stop it and surprised even him. Then he downright bewildered himself by offering, “Please—stay and watch the fireworks with me.” He looked at Emmeline and nodded toward the rear of the garden. “You’ll be able to see them better from back there.” When the little girl hesitated, he added, “There’s a cement bench next to the rose arbor. If you stand on it, you should be able to see over the wall and right into the park where they’re being set off.”
An expression of desperate longing brightened her face. She shot a glance over her shoulder at her mother in a silent plea for permission.
“All right,” the woman sighed, surrendering the battle. “But only for a few minutes. We don’t want to intrude on this man’s kindness.”
Emmeline cast a grateful look at Mason, then ran away toward the far end of the garden, where she disappeared into the shadows like a ghost into the darkness.
“Thank you,” her mother said. “But really you didn’t have to do that. I’m sure you don’t want us here bothering you.”
“It’s no bother.”
A skeptical look flashed over her face, yet she was polite enough not to argue. “We’re staying with Lord and Lady Whitwell for the season,” she explained, self-consciously hurrying through the informal introduction. “I’m their cousin, Nora, Lady Davenport.”
“A lady,” he repeated, unable to prevent a pang of disappointment that she was part of the London society he despised. “Not a gardener, then?”
“A baroness in the bushes, I’m afraid,” she admitted a bit sheepishly. “And you are?”
“Not a baroness,” he answered, deadpan. “Or in the bushes.”
She laughed at his teasing, and he drank in the sound which lingered, light and lovely, on the soft night air. It wasn’t often that he was able to make a woman laugh, especially one so elegant and beautiful. “Not a gardener then either?”
“Nothing as exciting as that, I’m afraid.” He introduced himself. “I’m Mason Granger.”
She waved a hand in the general direction of the masquerade melee next door. “I remember seeing your name on the guest list. Why aren’t you at the party, Mr. Granger?”
“I’m not much for large crowds.” Hated them, in fact.
“Me either,” she admitted a bit secretively. “I’d much rather spend a quiet evening in front of the fire. But since I’m staying there, Lady Whitwell insisted I join the party.”
“A guest of honor?”
She grimaced. “A victim of proximity.”
As if on cue, another firework whistled into the sky overhead and burst into a red flare, followed by loud cheering and shouts from the guests who had all come outside to watch the display.
He muttered in exasperation, “Me too.”
Another laugh fell from her lips, and this one danced through him like a warm summer breeze.
Dear Lord, she was enchanting. Completely guileless. And wholly unexpected. If he wasn’t careful, she might just captivate him, and he’d end up tripping over his tongue as he had as a boy. He was a grown man for God’s sake. He’d built a grand life for himself of wealth, power, and respect, and enough that even as an untitled man of business he’d been invited to half the soirees in London this season.
But those old childhood fears and insecurities still remained, exacerbated by the presence of this alluring woman. She might be a baroness, but she was nothing at all like other peeresses he’d met. Those women were either condescending because he’d come from a working-class family or simply gave him the cut-direct, although that outright snubbing happened less and less as his wealth grew more and more. He was worth too much now to be ignored. But that only brought out another kind of condescension—bored wives and widows who wanted to bed him, titillated by the thought of intimacies with a man who could never be their true social equal.
But not this woman. Lady Davenport’s angelic presence enveloped him until she filled his senses and made his skin tingle. Other society women had always put him on edge because he was never certain that he was seeing the real women they were beneath the satin, jewels, and furs. But this one, who’d fallen to her knees to embrace her child was soft, warm…genuine.
So he dared to destroy all polite boundaries of conversation by asking, “What’s wrong with your daughter?”
*****
“Pardon?” Nora squeaked out, startled that he’d asked such a personal question. Even a self-declared hermit who most likely didn’t care one whit for social niceties should know better than to pry into her private affairs.
“She hasn’t uttered a single word. Is she mute?”
Anger replaced her surprise, and she answered curtly, “Emmeline is quite capable of speaking. She simply doesn’t.”
“Since when?”
Another question she didn’t want to answer. Dear God, hadn’t she spent enough time during the last eighteen months clawing her way through hell? She certainly didn’t need a reminder of it. “Forgive me, Mr. Granger, but I prefer not to discuss this.”
