‘Wedding tackle. Large. As in well-hung.’
‘Wedding – ? Toby, honestly, of all the expressions! And how is a lady supposed to judge that, might I enquire?’ She came over hot and cold just thinking about it. And impossible, surely, without careful inspection and that was out of the question. She hadn’t even had a good look when Jonathan… Stop it.
‘You can’t. I mean, breeches are pretty tight these days, but it doesn’t follow that what it’s like at rest is the same as when a fellow is…’ His brain appeared to catch up with his tongue and he went red. ‘Oh, hell, Sophie, stop asking questions a gentleman can’t possibly answer. This paragon has got to be rich and well-bred. What else?’
‘I for intelligent.’ She would ponder on the issue of well-endowed males later in the privacy of her own bed chamber.
‘That rules me out.’ Toby was unashamedly not bookish.
‘So does well-off.’ He had just inherited a very modest estate. ‘Anyway, we don’t want to get married to each other so it is academic. G for good-looking and also good-humoured, as in having a sense of humour, not being some blustering buffoon.’
‘You don’t want much, Sophie,’ Toby observed. ‘Virtually every man you will encounter socially is well-bred, but as for the rest of the list, it’s a tall order to find them all in the same package.’
‘I know, but it is very handy. I find myself becoming interested in a handsome face, or a witty or intelligent conversationalist and then I apply WWIGG and can cross the gentleman off because he doesn’t meet all five criteria.’ And even if he did, she would have to add the secret requirements – U for Understanding and F for Forgiving.
She thought she might have found the ideal candidate – pleasant, good-looking, a duke’s grandson, intelligent company – but he seemed no more eager to advance the matter than she did. Love she did not expect or need – friendship and reliability were what were important – but some enthusiasm would be welcome.
‘It almost sounds as though you enjoy crossing them all off, Soph. Don’t you want a husband?’ There was a screech of tuning violins. ‘Oh hell’s teeth they are going out for the next set and I’m promised to that Harrison beanpole. At least she’s yearning after Adrian Haye, so I’m safe.’ Toby fled towards the stairs and emerged just below her a minute later, running a hand through his unruly curls as he made his way to his partner.
She should go down soon herself. Lord Heaton had claimed the supper dance set and she was almost certain he was a WWIGG, although she had doubts about his sense of humour. But he might just be on his best behaviour which was making him somewhat solemn. But was he any better than Ralph Thorne, her exceptionally reticent leading candidate?
‘Tell me, Sophie,’ enquired a deep voice from the shadows behind her. ‘Do you want to cross them all off the list?’
She spun round, staggered, grasped the balcony rail. A complete stranger. A tall, dark stranger who had heard all of that. Even the well-endowed wedding-tackle part. ‘Oh, my Lord.’
‘Oh, Your Grace, actually,’ he remarked, emerging fully into the light cast by the great central chandelier.
‘You are a duke?’
Good looking, well bred, certain to be rich. Tick, tick, tick went an out-of-control internal scorekeeper. Pull yourself together, her brain snapped. You are unchaperoned in a deserted gallery with a strange man and you have just been overheard in an outrageously improper conversation. He might very well be making assumptions and intending to act on them. Which might be wickedly wonderful… Stop it, Sophie!
‘I am.’
‘You can’t be. I know all the dukes and you are not one of them.’ He looked like dukes ought to look according to fairy tales and, disappointingly, never did. Twenty seven? Over six feet tall, broad shoulders, patrician nose, grey, beautiful eyes, exquisitely cut evening suit, flat stomach. Her gaze began to shift downwards and she wrenched it back with an effort and met an amused smile. He wasn’t a mind reader, was he? ‘They are all too old. Unless you are the Lost Duke.’
‘I am not at all lost,’ he said. ‘I know exactly where I am. In the gallery at Lady Radlett’s May Ball.’
Oh yes, her internal scorekeeper added, that voice. Deep, warm, drawling. You should have added SS for Staggeringly Sexy.
‘You are the Duke of Calderbrook?’ He nodded. ‘Well, you might not be lost now, but why did you go away for so long? You’ve been gone for almost more years than I’ve been out.’ Not lost exactly. Apparently he had written letters home from time to time, but all those did was track where the errant nobleman had been, never where he was going. Or what he was doing, come to that. Or why.