Page 18 of Where the Heart Leads
“My dear Miss Ashford. What a pleasure it is to find you gracing this event.”
Barnaby watched with interest as Penelope stiffened, and turned, slowly, her expression hardening, to face the interloper.
Tristram Hellicar was a gazetted rake. He was also undeniably handsome. He bowed elegantly; straightening, he nodded to Barnaby, then turned his devastatingly charming smile on Penelope.
Who was demonstrably unimpressed. “Tristram, Mr. Adair and I—”
“Whatever you were, dear girl, I’m here now. Surely you wouldn’t throw me to the wolves?” A leisurely wave indicated the other guests.
Behind her lenses, Penelope’s rich brown eyes narrowed to slits. “In a heartbeat.”
“But consider, sweet Penelope, my being here with you is making all those other bright young sprigs keep their distance, relieving you of the need to exert yourself to diplomatically dismiss them. Rigby has just arrived, and you know how exhaustingly devoted he can be. And Adair here is no real protection—he’s far too polite.”
Barnaby caught the glinting glance Hellicar threw him, well aware the man was assessing him and his possible connection to Penelope. There was a latent warning in that look, but Hellicar wasn’t sure if he was a rival for Penelope’s affections, and without proof would only go so far.
He could have given Hellicar some sign easily enough, but he was enjoying the exchange and what it was revealing too much to cut it short. Aside from all else he was absolutely certain Penelope had no idea that Hellicar, reputation aside, was seriously pursuing her.
What was equally fascinating was that Hellicar, while having the nous to recognize that she wasn’t the usual sort of female, and therefore wouldn’t respond to the usual sort of blandishments, had no real clue how to charm her.
And if half the tales told of Hellicar were true, he was a past master at charming ladies of the ton.
He’d failed dismally with Penelope.
Hellicar continued his lighthearted banter, seeming not to realize she only grew progressively more rigid. Eventually she cut through his prattle without compunction.
“Go away, Tristram.” Her voice was even, and cold as steel. He’d clearly fallen entirely from grace. “Or I’ll tell Lord Rotherdale what I saw in Lady Mendicat’s parlor.”
Hellicar blinked, then paled. “You saw…you wouldn’t.”
“Believe me, I saw, and I would. And I’d relish every moment of the telling.”
Lips compressing, eyes narrowing, Hellicar studied her face—and her set expression—and decided she wasn’t bluffing. Accepting defeat, he bowed, rather less fluidly than before. “Very well, fair Penelope. I’ll retire from the lists. For now.” He glanced at Barnaby, then looked at Penelope. “However, if your aim is to lead an unfettered existence, then chatting so animatedly to Adair here isn’t a clever way to convince all those yearning puppies that you’re uninterested in a stroll to the altar. Where one goes, others might venture.”
Turning away, he said, “Be warned, Adair—she’s dangerous.”
With a salute, Hellicar departed.
Penelope frowned. Increasingly direfully. “Rubbish!”
Barnaby fought to suppress a smile. She was dangerous—dangerously unpredictable. He hadn’t needed Hellicar’s warning, yet for him her threat stemmed from his fascination; he’d never before encountered a gently bred lady who, intentionally and with perfect understanding, stepped entirely beyond society’s bounds whenever she felt like it and knew she could get away with it.
For the first time in longer than he could remember, he was enjoying himself at a ton function. He was being entertained in a novel, entirely unexpected way.
“At least he’s gone.” Penelope turned back to him. “So”—she frowned—“where were we?”
“I was about to ask—”
“Miss Ashford.”
She actually hissed in disapproval as she swung to face their latest interruption. Young Lord Morecombe. She dismissed him summarily, ruthlessly disabusing him of the notion that she had the least interest in hearing about the latest play, let alone his curricle race to Brighton.
Morecombe was followed by Mr. Julian Nutley.
Then came Viscount Sethbridge.
While she dealt with him, and then Rigby, who true to Hellicar’s prediction proved the most difficult to dismiss, Barnaby had ample time to study her.
It wasn’t hard to see why those hapless gentlemen were drawn to brave her sharp tongue. She was highly attractive, but not in any common way. The dark hue of her gown made her porcelain skin glow. Even her spectacles, which she no doubt assumed detracted from her appearance, actually enhanced it; the gold rims outlined her eyes, while the lenses faintly magnified them, making them appear even larger, emphasizing her long, curling dark lashes, the rich, dark brown irises, and the clear intelligence that shone from their depths.
