Page 10 of Sir Hugo Seeks a Wife
She subsided into her chair, reminding herself of the price of recklessness.A price that she still paid.“Please sit down and tell me what you’d like in the next poem.”
He took the seat in front of the desk, and the glance he cast her was sharp.“What did I say wrong?”
She frowned.“Nothing.”
“Then why have you gone as stiff as a board all of a sudden?”
“I…” Desperate, she searched for an explanation that didn’t involve divulging the sorry tale of her life.Then she raised her chin and glared at him, although she was angrier with herself than with him.“Shall we proceed?Perhaps we could praise Lady Petronella’s complexion?”
Something about his expression warned her that he wasn’t ready to let his question go.He had an appealing face.Kind eyes.Laughter lines.But that chin said that he could be stubborn, too.
Athene braced for him to hound her, but after a second, he relaxed back in his chair.“Pink and white.”
“What?”
“Lady P.’s complexion.”
“Roses and cream.”
He didn’t look impressed, even though it was a better line than anything from her inadequate effort yesterday.“If you like.”
When Sylvie came in to announce Sir Hugo, Athene had been sitting, staring at a blank sheet of paper.Lord Tierney had ordered a verse for his wife to mark their thirtieth wedding anniversary.Now she wrote “roses and cream” down.“What else?”
“What else?”
She sat back with an impatient sigh.Sir Hugo seemed to have trouble recalling the object of his visit.Wooing the current diamond.Unfortunately so did she.“Yes, what else have you noticed about her complexion?”
“Healthy?”
Athene couldn’t help rolling her eyes.“A little prosaic.”
He was unoffended.In fact, something told her that he enjoyed her candor.Usually she was all quiet discretion with her clients.But then usually she had no desire to kiss her clients.The longer she sat a few feet away from Sir Hugo, the hotter she burned to press herself up against that muscled chest.
“Health matters.I’m a farmer.A wilting rosebud won’t transplant too well to my rugged Yorkshire hills.”
Athene regarded him with curiosity.“You’re from Yorkshire?”
“Aye, lass,” he said in a broad accent that made her smile.“The grandest country God ever created.Do you know it?”
She’d grown up in the Dales.Through all her adventures, she’d never forgotten the huge skies and the brisk wind that swept away everything petty and shabby.It was a constant grief that she could never go back.She was shut out of paradise.She hated London with its crowds and its dirt and its dangers.But London was the safest place to disappear.
“No,” she lied, feeling like she denied her best friend.“Is it beautiful?”
“Didn’t I just say?”He reverted to his usual upper-crust accent.“You’d love it.Space for a man – or a woman – to breathe.High hills.Sparkling becks flowing with crystal water that tastes better than champagne.”
Yes, she remembered.How she remembered.“It sounds lovely.”
“I’d like to show you.”
That brought her up with a jolt.“Rather you should be thinking of showing Lady Petronella.”
He looked thoughtful.“I can’t picture her hiking across the moors.”
Neither could Athene.“Perhaps that’s something to consider before you propose.”
Then she bit her lip in chagrin.Sheneveroffered romantic advice to her clients.Partly because most of the gentlemen who engaged her services had no chance of winning the ladies they pursued.When she’d met Sir Hugo, she’d been convinced that he had no chance with Lady Petronella either.But now that she factored in his personal charms, the outcome wasn’t quite so clear-cut.Given a choice between an aging earl and this young Hercules, Athene knew who she’d take.
“Do you know Lady Petronella?”he asked.
