Page 86 of The Secrets of Lord Grayson Child
His worst fears realized, Gray bit back a groan, which proved wise given the way Swan’s expression lit.
“Excellent,” Swan said. “I had hoped her ladyship would include a musical interlude.”
Gray inwardly sighed. If he and Swan did become brothers-in-law, he would have to confess to his aversion to music in a social setting. He wasn’t sure his tact was up to the task; he’d have to conscript Izzy to do the enlightening.
He scanned the room and found her not far from the doorway, chatting with three other ladies, two young and one old.
He joined the group, and Izzy introduced him, but before any conversation could ensue, his aunt banged her cane on the floor, much like a judge with a gavel.
“Come along, everyone.” She waved toward the straight-backed chairs arrayed in a semicircle before a pianoforte. “Please sit, and we can begin.”
Gray hung back as the three ladies excitedly made their way to the chairs.
Izzy dallied by his side.
He met her amused and faintly questioning gaze and resolutely shook his head. “I can’t bear it.” Concealed between them, he grasped her hand and surreptitiously tugged. “Come and keep me company.”
She searched his eyes, then glanced toward the front of the room. “Wait until the first performer starts and everyone’s attention is fixed on them.”
That was sound advice. As there were more guests than chairs, plenty of others were standing about, although none were closer to the open doorway than they were.
With relief in prospect, Gray watched as a young lady was persuaded to seat herself before the keys. Helpfully, she launched into a resounding rendition of some march.
Izzy glanced his way. “Perfect covering fire, don’t you think?”
He grinned, gripped her hand more firmly, and quiet as mice, they slipped out of the room. He glanced back, but no head turned; no one noticed them leaving.
Matcham House hadn’t changed in the past ten years; unerringly, he led Izzy to the private parlor his aunt favored when alone and that would, therefore, be deserted as well as unknown to most guests.
He opened the door, and they whisked inside. The curtains were drawn against the night, but as per his memories, a lamp sat on the small table by the door. He quickly lit it, then turned the flame down to a comforting glow.
“That’s better.” He surveyed the room, finding it much as he recalled.
Izzy was already making her way to the small, well-padded sofa. With a swish of her skirts, she sat and looked invitingly at him.
He drank in her features, took in the open question in her eyes, then slowly walked across and settled in the spot beside her.
Tilting her head, she studied his face. “Is there something specific you wish to speak about?”
Yes.He’d been acting on impulse fed by instinct, as was his wont. Now, however…
He leaned back, angling so he could watch her face as he spoke; she obligingly mirrored the position so they could more easily observe each other’s expressions.
He looked at her, appreciating her quiet confidence, her assurance, and the experienced intelligence lurking behind her emerald eyes. His opening words leapt to his tongue. “One change the past ten years have wrought is that we’re older and wiser—with the years, we’ve gained wisdom and insight.” He tipped his head, ruefully acknowledging, “Perhaps not of each other but of ourselves and our world. I hope, because of that, we’ll be better able to understand and accommodate each other.”
She said nothing, simply waited, and he went on, “Given my suggestion of reclaiming what we had ten years ago and, this time, going further and exploring what might be”—he drew breath and searched her eyes—“perhaps it’s time we shared our thoughts on what we want from our lives.”
Her brows faintly rose; she looked unsure.
Unable to stop himself, he stated, “That kiss, Izzy. You know as well as I do the connection still exists.” He gestured. “So what are we to do about it? Go forward? Or pretend that link between us isn’t there?”
“It’s not that,” she replied rather tartly. “It’s just…where do we start?”
He thought for a moment, then surrendering wholly to impulse, said, “How would you feel if I proposed?”
Izzy blinked. He wanted to start there? Then she realized how he’d phrased the question. Put like that, it gave her the chance to put him off before he actually proposed—an easy way out for both of them, one that wouldn’t involve a direct rejection and the associated hurt.
Yet they’d been this way before, talking of sharing their lives.
