Page 21 of Never a Duke
“You are a poet, Mr. Wentworth.”
“Hardly that.” Though Ned liked to read poetry. “You are upset with your brother.” Lady Rosalind was no longer lilting her words. She had instead gone quiet, her gaze shuttered, and Ned could think of no other reason why that should be.Hewas upset with Lindhurst, who had behaved like the veriest boor.
“Lindy knew Papa expected me to put in an appearance at this affair,” her ladyship said, “and had you not agreed to escort me, I would have had to apply to my brothers. I realize I am not in the first stare of anything. I am long in the tooth and too outspoken, but when Lindy planned to be here anyway…”
She fell silent, and the birds flew off, save for two little creatures who continued playing.
“Lindhurst wanted to accompany Miss Tait,” Ned said, pulling his gloves from his pocket and making a little fuss out of putting them on. This minor commotion right beside the birdbath inspired the last two birds to fly onto a nearby branch and perch side by side. “Your brother put his own interests ahead of yours.”
“As usual,” Rosalind said. “I ought not to be surprised, and I don’t particularly care that Lindy didn’t escort me, but if he was planning to attend, he could have spared me the trouble.”
“You truly don’t care for social outings?”
“No,” she said, studying the birds side by side on their branch, “I do not, though I find present company delightful and will thus ask you to join me on Monday for the Petershams’ musicale. Very forward of me, but you did say I could ask.”
Ned enjoyed music, and he enjoyed Lady Rosalind—found her delightful, in fact—and he indeed had said that she could simply ask him for what she wanted.
“I would be honored, and I might have more information for you by then regarding your maids.” He would make the rounds of the brothels before Monday, and just get it over with.
Though London sported a deuced lot of brothels.
“Thank you,” Rosalind said, shifting to take his hand. “Die-away ninnyhammers with an obsession for passing fashions…that was brilliant, Mr. Wentworth. Shall we find the punch bowl?”
“A glass of punch would suit,” Ned said, winging his arm, then aiming a puzzled look at the depths of the birdbath. “My gracious, somebody dropped a pocket watch directly into the water. It looks rather pretty there, with the sunlight glinting off of it, don’t you think?”
Lady Rosalind peered into the water, then at Ned. “That is my brother’s…” Her features became luminous with mischief and joy. “He had his own miniature painted on the inside. I do believe that is Lindy’s most favorite possession.”
Ye cavorting nymphs of Olympus, that smile. That sweet, naughty, knowing smile. “What a shame his lordship was so careless with it.”
“A pity,” Lady Rosalind said. “A terrible pity.” She kissed Ned’s cheek, and Ned let her direct him back down between the privet hedges when all the while his insides felt as if the finches were leaping about where his vital organs should be.
Proper ladies did not press sweet little kisses to Ned’s cheek. Such ladies did not think he was brilliant, much less approve of his lapse back into the larceny and rough justice of his boyhood.
Proper ladies did not ask him for anything—anything other than money—and even then, it wasn’t his money they needed.
“Would you rather simply take leave of our hostess?” he asked.
Rosalind nodded. “How did you know?”
“I was ready to leave before the second blast of the coach horn.” He patted her hand where it rested on his arm, though that did nothing to settle the riot inside him.
***
Ned Wentworth liked birds. His father had been a tailor. He did not use his influence at the bank to enrich himself. Best of all, he felt no temptation to linger among the parasol-twirling diamonds and rubies of polite society.
Rosalind felt like a bird herself, jealously snatching up crumbs about the man who sat so calmly beside her, guiding his horses through yet another thronged Mayfair street.
His silences were patient and self-contained, like landscape paintings. Much might be afoot within the scope of the scene depicted, but all the viewer saw was a single image, all elements of the composition in a pleasing balance.
“I suppose young ladies kiss you all the time.” Rosalind hated—hated, hated, hated—the note of nervous uncertainty in her voice. Still, she hadn’t stammered, that was something. Had not stammered when ambushed by Miss Amanda Tait either.
“The young lady most likely to steal kisses from me these days usually has to pull her thumb out of her mouth to effect her thievery. Her fingers are often sticky, and she has the sharpest little elbows a man ever did attempt to dodge.”
“You have a daughter?” Ned Wentworth was handsome, more than solvent, and a scion of a ducal household, albeit informally so. That he had a by-blow should be no surprise.
“I refer to Lady Mary Jane Wentworth, youngest denizen of Their Graces’ nursery. She has three older sisters, each of whom at some point regarded me as her favorite. Then Uncle Stephen or Cousin Duncan or—worst ignominy of all—some dog, kitten, or pony would come along and depose me. No amount of licorice drops or peppermint sticks can compete with puppies or ponies.”
“You speak of these fickle damsels with great affection.”
