Page 72 of Ten Lords for the Holidays

Her cousins were heading for the castle and her sister gave her a glare, but Miss Goodenham lingered. Alexander offered his elbow to her to escort her a bit of the way, and she accepted with a smile. She leaned against him a little so he could feel the curve of her breast against his arm.

“The theater?” he echoed, raising his quizzing glass to examine her. She was utterly perfect. “I do. And you?”

“Oh, not very often, but I did see a Shakespearean play the last time we were in London.” Her smile was impish. “Grandmamantook us to seeHenry IV.”

“Perhaps she thought it a good way for you to learn more of border politics.”

“Perhaps, though it would have been a more compelling lesson if she had not fallen asleep herself.”

Alexander chuckled.

“I should have preferred to have seen something more amusing.”

“Which of the plays would you have favored?”

She cast him a knowing glance. “Twelfth Nightis my favorite, Your Grace.”

“Because love conquers all?”

“You sound like my sister!”

“And mine, to be sure. But that is not your reasoning?”

She frowned. “I should like to think love would be triumphant, Your Grace, but find it easier to believe that justice will prevail.” She met his gaze. “It is a more reassuring notion, do you not think?”

“I do.”

“Plus I find characters in disguise most beguiling.”

Alexander’s heart stopped, then leaped. “But surely it is implausible for people to so readily err in identification?”

“I do not think so. Few people truly look or pay attention. And people pretend to be other than they are all the time. Some simply do it better than others.”

“Does that make them dishonest?”

“Not if they have good cause. I am certain, for example, Your Grace, that if you or I ever donned a disguise, it would be for only the very best reasons.”

“And how might you be so certain of that?”

She smiled sunnily. “My heart tells me so, and I trust it implicitly.” She continued, not giving him a chance to reply, “But what I most remember from that play was Falstaff.”

“A rogue and a scoundrel.”

“To be sure, and a very fat one, at least upon the stage.” Her gaze dropped to his belly and he had the sudden suspicion that she had seen through his ruse. “Your waistcoat is most splendid today, Your Grace,” she said lightly. “I have never seen such lavish embroidery.”

“For church, you know. Lord knows one must wear one’s best.”

“Indeed. This silvery shade of mauve is most attractive. What do you call it?”

“Lavande, of course.”

“Of course. Lavendar. And the grey?”

“Argent.”

“Oh, no, sir, it cannot beargent.Argentis darker, like the spots on a dappled horse.” She bit her lip and surveyed his waistcoat, which was filled with such bulk that it had required a considerable measure of cloth. Then she smiled. “It is the color of a dove. Gris tourterelle.”

He simpered, to disguise how thoroughly he was charmed. “Everything sounds so much better in French, don’t you think?”

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