“No,” Grif said petulantly.
“No?” Hugh echoed incredulously, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
“No.” Grif repeated emphatically. “I’d rather gouge at me very eyes than make polite conversation with that devil’s handmaiden,” he muttered. “She likes to see a man squirm, that one.”
“There’s only one thing to be done for it,” Hugh said gravely.
Grif looked at him.
“Do yer squirming on her, lad!”
Grif glared at him, but Hugh laughed. “All right, then,” he said, still smiling, “why donna ye write yer brother and ask him about the lass? Perhaps he can shed some light, aye?”
“Aye,” Grif said, nodding. “Aye, that’s what I’ll do, then.”
Hugh chuckled, picked up an empty tot, and poured Grif a shot of whiskey. “There now, Lockhart!” he said congenially. “Have yerself a spot of good Scottish whiskey before ye collapse into sobs like a wee bairn. How could she know what ye’re about? If she suspected, she’d have all of London on yer head.”
That much was true. But he’d write to Liam all the same. With a snort, Grif ignored the tot Hugh offered him and reached for the bottle instead. Bottle in hand, he propped his feet up next to Hugh and joined him in staring morosely at the fire …while the memory of that searing kiss continued to frolic at the corner of his mind.
In Mayfair the next afternoon, Whittington House was once again besieged by admiring young men come to call on Miss Lucy, and Miss Lucy greeted them all with a thinly veiled yawn and the serious study of her manicure.
As she explained to Anna later that afternoon (who had been commanded by her mother to accompany them on a walkabout of Hyde Park), she found all her callers rather boring all in all, and really, there were only one or two who had sparked any interest.
“Who?” Anna asked as the three of them strolled along the path.
“Can’t you at least guess?”
“How could I possibly guess? I’ve scarcely noticed your suitors, Lucy.”
Lucy flashed a little smile and linked her arm through Anna’s. “Haven’t you really? All right then, I’ll tell you,” she said as they paused to admire a showy stand of hollyhock. “I’m a bit partial to the Scotsman,” she began, to which Anna rolled her eyes, “and Mr. Bradenton.”
“Mr. Bradenton?” Anna repeated, a little taken aback. Mr. Bradenton had never called that she could remember, and had not been at any of the popular balls this Season.
Lucy smiled and nodded dreamily. “He’s really so very handsome, and quite kind.”
“Pray tell, Lucy… how could you possibly know if he is kind?”
Lucy shrugged. “I’ve heard tell.”
“I’ve not met him that I recall,” Mother said as they casually continued on.
“You can hardly expect to make a match with a gentleman who does not, at the very least, call on you,” Anna reminded her.
“Really?” she said sweetly. “If that is the case, Anna dearest, how will you ever make a match?”
“Lucy!” Mother exclaimed. “Be charitable!”
Lucy smiled and fussed with her parasol; Anna looked heavenward for strength. “There is one more,” Lucy said casually as her parasol opened, almost piercing Anna in the eye.
“Is there,” Anna said, sighing wearily as Lucy swung her parasol up to block the sun over her and Mother. “Please enlighten us, for we are all aquiver with curiosity.”
“Oh, Anna, how many times must I tell you that sarcasm does not become you?” Mother chided her.
Lucy slanted a triumphant look at her. “Mr. Lockhart,” she whispered excitedly.
The blood rushed to Anna’s neck; she quickly looked away and shrugged nonchalantly. “Oh. Him. And when do you expect he’ll return from Bath?”
“Good heavens, not Nigel Lockhart! Mr. Drake Lockhart!” Lucy shot her a heated look, but then smiled softly. “Mr. Drake Lockhart. Is he not impossibly handsome?”
“He is quite handsome, darling,” Mother agreed.
“I really hadn’t noticed,” Anna lied, and did her level best to keep her expression stoic as she tried to keep down the myriad emotions bubbling to the surface.
“Can you keep a secret?” Lucy asked in a loud whisper.
“No,” Anna said decisively.
“Oh, Anna!” Lucy whined. “Is it so difficult to humor me?”
“Yes.”
“My secret is… that Mr. Lockhart rather fancies me, too!” When Anna did not respond, Lucy roughly elbowed her. “I’m quite serious!”
Anna couldn’t help but look at her—for once, her younger sister looked rather earnest and wide-eyed. “Do you know that he wrote a poem, just for me?”
Anna’s heart suddenly plummeted.
“He did! He wrote a poem, just for me!”
“Oh, how very romantic,” Mother said dreamily.