“We can hail a hackney now, if you like,” he offered.
“Why? It’s a glorious day!”
It really wasn’t. The sky was a dull grey, and the wind had a chill, but she shook her head at his bemused expression.
“I am always up walking at this hour. Any day without rain is a lovely day.”
He grinned. She truly was a delightful woman. “As I am rarely awake at this time, I bow to your greater experience.”
She cast him an admonishing look. “You should have told me you knew those bankers. It would have saved me from that interminable meal, then I could be at the park now and you in bed.” She tugged at the bodice of her gown, pulling it up to cover her better. It was a futile effort. He now recognized the thing as one of Isabelle’s cast-off gowns cut much too low even if the thing had fit.
“Would you like my coat?” he offered, even though it would leave him chest mostly bared to the wind.
She looked at him a moment, her eyes widening at the thought. And if he wasn’t mistaken, her cheeks pinked as well, and not from the exertion. “I think your attire is scandalous enough, don’t you?”
With that reaction, how could he resist? He shrugged off his coat and wrapped it around her shoulders, thereby exposing himself to the wind and covering up the distraction of her low bodice. He hoped God noticed how virtuous he was being. Her bosom was a magnificent sight.
But then, to his disappointment, she took a deep breath and appeared to focus her thoughts. “Very well,” she said. “Out with it. What is your plan?”
Chapter Six
Gwen folded herarms across her overly plumped bodice and began walking in the direction of her home rather than ogle the man she now knew was Lord Sayres. She hadn’t realized his true identity last night and, truthfully, wouldn’t have cared. But after she’d told Aunt Isabelle—ad nauseum—about her failed attempts to lure a husband, the woman had detailed Lord Sayres’ vast sexual exploits as a way of dissuading Gwen from considering the man as a potential husband. According to Aunt Isabelle, he was not only unsuitable to know, his time was completely absorbed in orgies that would put the Romans to shame.
It was the first time in her life that she thought Aunt Isabelle lacking in wits. No man had the stamina to do what she claimed. Though glancing at him now—still in his Lord Satyr costume—she was forced to acknowledge his continued virility. Even after a night spent in revels, he appeared as attractive in daylight as he had under the stars. He had her thoughts wandering in surprisingly sexual directions which flustered her. She’d never fantasized about kissing a man before, and yet suddenly she was thinking about all sorts of erotic things. And much more than kissing!
It made her skin hot and her breath short. So she made her voice stern as a way to distract herself from looking at his bared chest.
“I should like to know your plan to make our venture successful.”
“My plan?”
“Yes,” she said. “Any endeavor requires careful planning. I had thought you were up to that task. Was I mistaken?”
He was silent for a bit, his long strides easily matching hers, but eventually he spoke and she found his gaze disconcertingly direct. Especially since she was doing her best not to look at him.
“You sound as if you have tried this before with someone who has disappointed you,” he said.
Might as well tell him the truth. “I have thought of various schemes over the years to gain funds. I learned early that many activities were barred from me because of my gender, so I gave my ideas to my male family members.”
“Did they listen?”
“Two did. They thought my ideas were excellent concepts though both had to do with farm innovations.”
“What happened?”
She shrugged. “One was swindled out of every penny because he hadn’t the foresight to talk to his steward first. The other failed because he didn’t want to test the design.” She stopped walking to look straight at him. “I have given up asking men to think of the details of gardening or cultivation. I can see to that, but I have no ability to make it popular. I should like to know your plans for that.”
He tilted his head. “You know how best to transport it to London?”
She grimaced. “Not yet, though I have been ruminating on it. You cannot expect to cut the stems in the morning and sell them in London within the hour. Worse, it might be very difficult to move them in large enough volume for popularity.”
“Scarcer things are more valuable.”
She shook her head. “You cannot price a flower as if it were a diamond. There can only be a little profit with every sale. In order to make significant money, you will have to have significant sales.”
He smiled at her. “You have been thinking about this.”
“What else was I to do while Aunt Isabelle relayed tales of yet another one of your orgies?”