“That is entirely beside the point.”
“It is, I think, rather the central point.”
“It was meant to be an experience,” Caroline sighed.
This was the truth, in the same way that many partial truths were technically true while remaining comprehensivelyinadequate. It had been meant to be an experience, and shehadexperienced it.
“Itwasan experience,” she said again.
She had to think about it in the past because if she did not, she knew that she would find herself wishing for more.
The Duke of Wynford…Anthony… wasnota man for whom she should feel fever.
But no matter how much she thought it, her heart refused to listen to her head.
She did not look at Laura again until they had rejoined her sister-in-law and aunt on the south path, and by then she had arranged her expression into something she was reasonably confident would survive her aunt’s scrutiny.
Lady Hayward looked at her once and said nothing.
Which was, from Lady Hayward, its own variety of very loud comment.
The afternoon took Anthony unexpectedly into Gideon’s territory.
He had gone to White’s with the specific intention of signing some papers in the reading room and departing before acquiring any social obligations, which was a plan that had worked approximately never in the entire history of his membership and did not demonstrate any improvement today. He found Gideon in the hall before he had put his hat down.
“Wynford.” Gideon’s face communicated the particular satisfaction of a man who has been waiting for something and found it arriving precisely when expected. “I was hoping you’d appear. Lewis is in the reading room.”
“I know,” Anthony said. “I am hoping to avoid him.”
“Excellent news.” Gideon fell into step beside him with the easy, inexorable quality of a man who had decided to accompany someone and found the decision required no further justification. “As it happens, I have been hoping to avoid him as well. He has been in a peculiar mood for three days, and I have run out of subjects that don’t lead back to it.”
Anthony slowed his pace. “What mood?”
“The one where he is watching everyone as though he expects them to be concealing something,” Gideon said it pleasantly, without inflection, and looked sideways. “I have some theories about the cause, but I find I am waiting for you to furnish the evidence before I promote any of them.”
“Gideon.” The warning in Anthony’s voice was not particularly subtle.
“A drink first,” Gideon said, redirecting with the serene confidence of someone who had decided that the conversation was happening regardless of the other party’s preferences, and that a comfortable chair and a glass of something made it considerably more manageable. “Come.”
They settled in the corner of the morning room, where the fire was adequate, and the nearest occupied chairs were at a distance that communicated strangers rather than acquaintances. Gideon procured glasses with the efficiency of a man who had identified his primary requirements before entering the building.
Lewis appeared before Anthony had completed his first measure.
He was in riding clothes; he had been out that morning, then. The Duke of Grayston dropped into the chair across from them with the kind of ease that concealed a great deal of his own weight.
“Anthony.” He nodded. “Gideon.”
“Lewis.” Gideon lifted his glass. “You look remarkablyvigorousfor a man who has apparently been in this building since the breakfast hour.”
“I had business with Willoughby.” Lewis leaned back. “About the Dorset property.” He glanced at Anthony. “How is the drainage scheme progressing?”
“Final figures go to the committee before the end of the month,” Anthony said. “Hartley expects it to pass.”
“Good.” Lewis turned his glass once.
It was a gesture Anthony recognized; he had watched Lewis sit across from him at enough tables to know that the glass-turning meant he was managing the approach to a subject that had not yet arrived.
“I heard Pemberton is considering the Boxing subscription again. Are you still avoiding it?”