Page 17 of The Lyon and the Unicorn
“I doubt yer ineptitude would match mine,” he said. “We could be inept together and tread on everybody’s feet.”
“My mother wouldn’t approve.”
“Of treading on everyone’s feet—or dancing with me?”
She lowered her gaze.
“Would she approve if I sat with ye rather than danced?” he asked.
She nodded, and he steered her to a seat while the rest of the guests milled about.
“If ye don’t like dancing, Miss Martingale, what do ye like?”
“Long walks,” she said. “Climbing on rocks, eating out of doors in the wild.”
“And ye do that at home?”
“Yes.” She smiled, and an expression of contentment filled her eyes. “The moors around Pittchester Castle are exhilarating. I never imagined such a place could exist. Wide-open spaces with not a person to be seen for miles. What could be more perfect?”
“Ye’re not fond of people?”
“Not particularly. People believe the land exists to be owned by them, whereas we belong to the land.”
“A rather strange philosophy for a young woman about to embark on her debut,” he said.
“How did you know that?” Her smile disappeared. “I suppose Miss Peacock was kind enough to describe all my faults while you were dancing. What else did she say?”
“Nothing I cared to hear,” he said. “But I’m sure yer debut in London will be a success.”
She snorted. “I didn’t take you for a flatterer.”
“Have ye visited London before?”
She stiffened, and her eyes took on a hunted expression. “My stepfather has a house there, but I’ve yet to visit it.”
“Then perhaps ye’ll enjoy your stay. If ye’re fond of walking, I hear the parks are beautiful.”
“But filled with people,” she said. “So many people, Mama says. Besides, I’m not going there to walk. I’m going to find a husband.”
Envy stabbed at his heart.
“Do ye want to go?” he asked.
“No.”
Murdo waved down a passing footman bearing a tray of glasses and took two. He offered her one and she shook her head.
“I think I’ve had enough,” she said. “If I drink any more, I’m in danger of saying something I’ll regret. I wouldn’t want to overindulge like poor Miss Goodchild.”
“Quite so,” Murdo said, glancing across the ballroom to where Simon was steering the lady in question around the dance floor while she laughed uncontrollably, the sound reminiscent of a man sawing wood. “She’ll have a sore head in the morning, but at least she’s in safe hands with my cousin.”
“That’syour cousin?” Miss Martingale asked.
“Aye—Mr. Tuffington. Do ye know him?”
“I’ve met him once, at an agricultural show,” she said. “He seems a little less reprehensible than other men.”
“Ought I to be insulted?” he asked, laughing.
