Page 8 of Sir Hugo Seeks a Wife
Miss de Smith wasn’t yet ready to hear any of this, so he kept his tone urbane.“No need for you to break out the circus tricks.You can do your writing on the desk like a Christian.”
She didn’t smile.Right now he could tell that she didn’t like him much.But that would change.He’d make sure it did.
“You’ll be bored.”She cast him a rankling look.“Watching someone scribble isn’t a spectator sport.”
His careless smile made her eyes narrow.The smile was a lie.He’d never cared more in his life.
With a casual air that was also totally manufactured, he lolled back in his chair.Bored?Not bloody likely.His veins buzzed with life.“Wake me up if I go to sleep.”
Chapter 3
Petronella is so pretty,
Loveliest in all the city.
What joy it is to dance with her.
Such bliss that I’m a happy sir.
The next day, Athene was still wincing over her poor effort with Sir Hugo Brinsmead’s poem for Lady Petronella.Even if in her defense, she’d never before had to create a verse under a patron’s watchful gaze.Nor had she ever been so conscious of a man’s attractions, as she fumbled after rhymes.How could she concentrate on praising another woman’s charms, when her mind was focused on the picturesque brute sprawled in front of her?Shakespeare himself would have balked at the challenge.
Once she’d finished her uninspired effort, Sir Hugo had cast a quick look at the fair copy of the verse – blast him, she’d spoiled three cards trying to make a presentation version – and the dimple in one cheek suggested that he wanted to laugh.She couldn’t blame him.
She was less worried about Lady Petronella’s reaction.From what she could gather, the chit always threw away the poem unread and just devoured the sugared violets.If her ladyship wasn’t careful, that curvy figure was going to turn to fat.
Athene told herself not to be such a nasty cat.If she was honest with herself – and she generally was – she was green with jealousy.Not that Lady Petronella was so universally admired, but that she’d attracted the attention of one particular baronet.
Who had been cad enough to invite Athene to a rendezvous while he courted another lady.Athene should despise him.At the very least, she shouldn’t be thinking about him this afternoon.Not with half a dozen urgent commissions awaiting her attention.
Sylvie appeared at the door.“Sir Hugo is back.”
It was a rainy day, and the shop had been quiet.A perfect chance for Athene to get on with her work.Whereas she’d been sitting in the gloom, remembering a pair of bright blue eyes and how a set of impressive shoulders filled out a fashionable coat.
“Already?”she squeaked, surging out of her chair.
Sylvie cast her a curious glance.“Yes, he’s bought more violets for Lady Petronella and wants to request another poem.I told him I’d ask.”
She sank back into her chair.“I’m busy.”
“Are you?I’d have said you were sitting around in the dark, staring into space.”
“I’m thinking up some new rhymes.”
“Hmm.”Sylvie’s murmur conveyed skepticism.“Shall I send him in?”
Athene wanted to slap her dearest friend.Sometimes it wasn’t comfortable for someone to know one so well.Now that she thought about it, Sylvie had been very quiet about Sir Hugo.She usually had plenty of gossip to share about the gentlemen who came into the shop.
“If you must,” Athene muttered, watching Sylvie light a lamp.As the year drew in, nightfall came early.
“I think I must,” Sylvie said, and before Athene could question that annoyingly knowing statement, her friend had gone and Sir Hugo stood in front of her.
“Sir Hugo.”Athene rose and performed a curtsy.She was mortifyingly aware that yesterday she’d acted like a rag-mannered hoyden.Her only excuse was that the sight of so much delicious male had chased every sensible thought from her mind.
No wonder yesterday’s poem had been so limp.Which wasn’t an adjective she could ever imagine applying to Sir Hugo Brinsmead.
Burning blue eyes focused on her face as he bowed.She’d spent far too long last night trying to define the precise shade of blue.Cornflowers?Sapphires?The Mediterranean at noon?Now she found herself staring into those eyes and admitting that none of those descriptions did justice to the rich color.
“Miss de Smith, I trust you’re well.”That deep rumble of a voice startled her as it had startled her yesterday.She’d never known a man with such a basso profundo note to his speech.It resonated in her bones in a most pleasing way.And made her stomach twist with longing.That was pleasing, too.Or it would be, if she didn’t know what it meant.
