An unreasoned surge of anger swelled in his breast. Not anger at her, precisely. Just anger at a society that would suffer nothing truly wild to last. Beauty must be capped with ugly bonnets. Hedges must be shaped and trimmed. The world must be colonized. Motherless rogues must inherit dukedoms. Tigresses must be tamed.
And then…out of the corner of his eye…Harry watched Miss Eliza Cade do something very interesting. She caught one edge of her bonnet’s ribbon ties and pulled it. Slowly, secretly, until the ribbons hung loose.
Then she leaned close to Harry—her softness pressing against his arm—and murmured one word. “Faster.”
Good God.
Harry didn’t recall urging the team from a trot to a canter. More likely the beasts simply sensed the animal surge of excitement that powered through his blood at the sound of that husky, sensual whisper from her lips.
Faster.
His every muscle, every nerve drew tight. The horses sensed it, and faster they went.
Off the dratted bonnet flew—spiraling into the wind.
She made no attempt to catch it.
He turned, and was momentarily dazzled by the way the sunlight bounced off her honey-gold hair. “Shall I turn back for it?”
“Don’t you dare.” To his sly look, she replied, “My sister needs immediate attention.”
“Yes, of course. How good of you, to sacrifice propriety so selflessly. To urge me to hurry. All for the good of your sister.”
She turned away, but she couldn’t hide the hint of a smile. Not without that bonnet.
For his part, Harry openly grinned. Perhaps this corner of England retained a bit of wildness after all.
Lord Brentley,
I don’t know how I can thank you for your kind attention to my sister and sisters-in-law the other day, after their mishap while berry-picking. Let me start by inviting you and your friend to Farnsworth Hall for dinner tomorrow.
Yours,
Sir Roland Farnsworth
DINNER WASN’T TOO BAD, considering.
Considering that Caro had seated her next to the horrid, unspeakable Mr. Wright—the witness to one of her most keen humiliations in recent memory.
Considering that the man in question had stared at her through every course, a devilish smirk playing about his lips. No doubt he was recalling every growling, taunting, embarrassing moment of that encounter in the morning room last year.
But Eliza had survived the meal, gratefully, and now sat in the drawing room with the ladies whilst the gentleman enjoyed their port elsewhere. And as much awkwardness as she’d suffered with Mr. Wright, Philippa and Lord Brentley’s interactions were all ease and friendship.
Eliza had never seen her sister so enamored with a gentleman—Philippa was always more interested in the writings of dead men than conversation with living ones. But Lord Brentley was versed on poetry, art, the theater—all of Philippa’s favorite topics. And just as Caroline Farnsworth had intimated, he was a most handsome, solicitous man.
The two were perfect for one another, and they had the rest of the summer to confirm it. Eliza would endure all sorts of torment from Mr. Wright’s quarter if it allowed the couple more time together.
So when the men came to join the ladies, and by and by it was suggested that Lord Brentley help Philippa practice a new waltz, Eliza leapt to play the pianoforte for them.
“Do you waltz, Mr. Wright?” Caroline Farnsworth asked, clearly hopeful.
“I do waltz,” the man replied. “But I think I’d better not just yet, Miss Farnsworth. Too much of Sir Roland’s excellent port. I might spin you straight through the windowpane.” He sauntered toward the pianoforte. “I’ll turn pages for Miss Eliza instead.”
“I do love a man who turns pages.” Caroline waggled her brows. “If you know what I mean.”
At that sterling example of a Caro-ism, Mr. Wright gave Eliza a bemused look, full of inquiry.
Eliza shrugged, setting her fingers to the ivory keys and finding the rhythm of the dance.
“Don’t you want to waltz?” he asked, dropping his weight beside her on the pianoforte bench.
Eliza sighed and kept her gaze trained on the music. Of course she wanted to waltz. She longed to dance any sort of dance. She’d settle for a quadrille.
“I’m not allowed to dance in mixed company,” she said. “I’m not yet out.”
“Still not out? How old are you?”
She cut him an annoyed look. “What a thing to ask. How old are you?”
He declined to answer, suddenly absorbed in turning the page of her music.
“The reason isn’t my age,” she said a few measures later, “it’s that I’m the youngest. My father decided I must wait some years ago, after—”
“After you did something naughty,” he finished.
“What?” Eliza struck a wrong note and blushed. “Why would you assume that?”
How did he know? No one knew of it outside the family, and her sisters would never tell a soul.