Page 105 of Lessons for Marquesses
“What about the music, miss?” Rupert asked from his polite distance. “I figure she’s hired some highty-tighty lot. What if she got somethin’ else, instead?”
“Old man, you’re a sage,” Julian said. “Something Scottish or Irish, with pipes. A hurdy-gurdy. What a riot to see the quality dancing jigs.”
Kitty clapped. “We’ll replace the hired musicians with them. Mr. Fitzwilliam, you can hold up their coach like a highwayman.”
Fitzwilliam grinned.
“Or we could just find out who they are,” Julian said, “and cancel the contract.”
Kitty slumped. “Very well.”
“I know a woman who tells fortunes at Carlisle House,” Anthony said.
Kitty clambered to her knees. Together, the stoics plus Rupert shared wicked looks.
“We provide the backgrounds on the guests,” Anthony started.
“And she’ll deliver disastrous fortunes,” Kitty concluded.
Rupert slapped his knee, more gleeful than a pig in mud.
The troupe filled their glasses, offering one to Rupert, and they toasted to their plans. Their imaginations soared to heights of pure evil wherein they fantasticated on Caroline’s plummet from society and exile to an archipelago.
Georgiana focused on the rainbow before her of voluminous skirts and country frock coats with the verdant grass stretching out behind them. She tugged at her hair, straightening a wave past her collar, twirling a lock over her brow.
“You have lovely hair, Ana.”
Georgiana rolled to her side as Anthony, having searched her out, leaned over her. She offered him the narrowest of glares. “You do not care a fig for me. What are you about?”
“May I touch it?”
“No.”
“My favorite word.” He touched it anyway, parting a section and rubbing it between his fingers. “Soft, too.”
Ready to clout the air from his lungs, she aimed for his middle, and ended up clenching his waistcoat at the sudden clink of a bit. All discussion ceased, leaving the meadow cloaked in silence.
Mr. Wolf sat astride his massive black hunter as his gaze bored a scorching hole through Georgiana’s hand. She didn’t have to imagine what he saw. Anthony hovering over her and touching her hair, she lying below him with her hand…
Georgiana snatched it away.
Julian spoke first. “Mr. Wolf. Come. Join us.”
“Unlike the rest,” Anthony whispered in Georgiana’s ear, “I saw Mr. Wolf coming. You can thank me later.”
Mr. Wolf kicked his long leg over his stallion’s neck and landed on braced feet. Without taking his eyes off Georgiana, he drew the reins over Teague’s head and stuffed them in Julian’s hand. “George, walk with me.”
Under sixteen eyes, two of molten golden-brown, Georgiana pressed to her knees. She gained dominion over her legs as Mr. Wolf stared on. Sixteen eyes, two of shifting depth and purpose, watched her walk around the party and come to a halt. With a twist of his heel, Mr. Wolf left a scar in the turf and started a furious trek of long, lupine limbs.
He wrenched his left shoulder. “Shall we walk to the ruins?”
“That would be pleasurable.”
He jerked his head toward her, his black hair shining like obsidian. Looking away, he raked it back.
It didn’t matter what Mr. Wolf had seen or thought or if he were angry or didn’t give a whit. He wanted to walk with her and had announced it in front of the world. In Kitty’s novels, this was tantamount to a marriage proposal. But the last time she had been elated, he had crushed her hopes in the Great North Road.
They walked on, she watching him, he watching the horizon where the barley field awaited behind a hedgerow of hawthorn. From there, the castle stone vaulted to the cornflower sky.
