Page 23 of Nothing But a Rakehell
He cocked his head and threw her own words back at her. “Come on, then, give us something!”
Her expression grew bleak. “I’m sorry. I cannot. I won’t ever be so foolish as to perform that piece again.” She went to sit on the edge, her skirts dangling over the edge. “Perhaps I’ll write a limerick for you, though.”
“Now, that would be worth waiting for.” Chuckling, he joined her.
“A fairy theatre, I like that,” she mused. “My piece was from A Midsummer Night’s Dream.” She glanced over at him. “Do you believe in fairies?” she asked suddenly.
The question caught him by surprise. “I don’t know. My mother did, certainly.”
That caught her interest. “Did she?”
“Every good Irish girl does. At least, that’s what she would tell me when she left out offerings of milk or bread on the window ledge.”
“Did you ever see one?”
He shook his head. “No. I only ever saw my father’s fury if he caught her at it. He forbade such fancy and could not abide superstitious nonsense.”
She sighed. “Perhaps it is nonsense. But part of me wants to believe.”
“The world needs a bit of magic, I think.”
‘Yes, but the world makes it difficult to accept that it exists.”
“These are the places that make it easier, though.”
“There’s more,” she said. “Help me down.”
He slid down and turned to find her holding her arms out in expectation like a child. She was no child, though. He could feel her curves as he lifted her down and set her before him—perhaps closer than was strictly necessary.
Definitely closer.
She smelled of lavender. Tensford’s countess was a lover of sachets, he’d discovered. Likely Lady Glory’s bureau drawers and wardrobes were full of sachets stuffed with lavender—just as his contained bundles of bay leaves and cloves.
She had a cravat tied around her neck, as was usual with a military styled habit, and it ended with a flounce of lace upon her bosom—although she was in no need of enhancement there, as he could tell, because he still had not let her go.
He was going to. He was going to withdraw his hands from her and stop the press of his fingers along the underside of her more-than-respectable breasts. Right after he’d done examining the small stickpin she wore, tucked in amongst the lace.
“Lady Glory, is that, by chance, an insect?”
“Where?” She raised a hand to brush away an aerial assault.
“In your stickpin.”
“Oh, yes.” She hadn’t withdrawn from him. Her breathing had quickened, though, and her gaze finally broke away to look down. “It’s trapped inside a bead of amber.”
He tilted his head. “Other ladies wear sapphires or rubies. You wear a bug.”
Now she stepped away. “Tensford gave it to me,” she said defensively. “He found the amber here, at Greystone. I thought it was fascinating—frozen forever like that. He had the stickpin made for me.”
“I didn’t say it was a bad thing,” he told her. “It’s just another interesting bit about you. I must apologize for my comments yesterday. You are, in fact, different from the girls I’ve met in London.”
“Yes. That’s me.” She moved further away, her limp slowing her. “Different.” Crossing to the copse on the far side of the glen, she held a thick branch back and looked over her shoulder at him. “Step carefully and go slowly.”
She ducked into the underbrush and disappeared.
He followed. Branches grabbed at him as he pushed through the bracken—and then stepped out into a clear spot.
And stopped, struck speechless.
