Page 64 of Wild Lily
“To do what?”
“Make fun of me.”
“I may be cold, solitary, even sour, but I doubt anyone has ever said I was critical of others.”
She cast her eyes away, her shoulders flexing in discomfort.
“Please don’t think me capable of ridiculing you. Far from it.”
“Why would you ask about my feelings for Lord Pinkhurst then?”
“I’m curious because—”Oh, hell.“I want to learn what kind of man does appeal to you.”
She stiffened in her saddle, as if she girded for battle. “That’s very personal.”
“Of course it is. It gives me an advantage.”
“Do you need one?” she threw back at him.
“Do I?” he persisted, undiplomatic as that was.
Her eyes locked to his, she considered that a long moment. “He’s asked for my hand once.”
Julian stiffened, alarm winging through his blood. “I would assume because you’re here with me that you refused him.”
She sniffed. “I did not.”
No?“What then?”
“I told him I was not considering any proposals until June.”
“Why?” he blurted, in frustration and fear.
She rolled a shoulder. “I want to take my time to consider such a momentous decision.”
“I’m pleased.”
“Are you?” She faced him, her brilliant gaze locking on his and searching for truth.
I wish to God I had Pinkie’s income. That sum could commend me, if only a little.But he couldn’t tell her that, lest she link his finances to his desire for her hand. “Very pleased.”
She said nothing but only nodded and rode onward.
He sought to bridge the gap. “I’d like to show you the house. It’s old, filled with treasures and totally mine.”
“Wonderful.” She followed his lead.
At the kitchen entrance, he dismounted and reached to help her down. Looping the horses’s reins over the iron rail, he opened the door, took her hand and led her inside. He’d spent most of the afternoon rehearsing a speech about marriage and money and a future they might build together. But as he escorted her through the scullery and up the servants’ back stairs to the first floor and the pink marble foyer, he felt lost. His mind went blank.
“Oh, my,” she exclaimed as she turned in a circle to view his ancestors whose portraits hung in the massive hall. “My relatives are not so many.”
“And not so dour, I’d bet.” He hurried to the butler’s closet, found two candles in holders and lit them with a flint.
She lifted her taper to illuminate one painting and pointed toward one male peacock in vermilion velvet doublet and black codpiece. “Who is this gentleman?”
“Ah, Randy Roderick Ash. No gentleman at all. A courtier to Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth. A spy for the Crown. A seducer of many women. Father of too many children, all illegitimate but one.”
“Good for the family,” she said with humor. “And who is this lady?”
