“That also seems like something one can avoid.”
“People are unpredictable, Lord Vaughn. You never know when someone might take offense at something that seems perfectly harmless. Perhaps you might say, this cheese is delicious and they might reply, no, it isn’t, sir. How dare you insult my taste. My seconds will call upon yours.”
He listened to this madness, eyes alight with amusement.
She had quite uncharacteristically drunk nearly three cups of ratafia, which she suspected had been enhanced with something stronger. The waltz was making her dizzy, and not in a good way.
Lord Vaughn hadn’t seemed to notice that she was foxed, thankfully.
“Then I would just apologize for offending him,” he said simply. “Because I don’t want anyone to shoot at me.”
This was difficult to argue with, and yet seemed all wrong.
“Why the questions about shooting? Are you feeling in need of defense, Miss Keating?”
“Well, I do like to be prepared should my honor be besmirched.”
“I see. Well, to reassure you, I’m a fair shot. However, I’m learning to play the violincello, and somemen might prefer to die than hear me play, so I suppose I might retaliate that way.”
She laughed. “Are you indeed? Can you play any recognizable tunes? I know a jolly one with clapping in it.”
She was at once sorry she’d mentioned it. Because when she did, Kirke thundered into her mind as vividly and swiftly as the first night she’d seen him, when she’d summoned him by singing that song at the top of her lungs.
Her legs suddenly felt leaden.
Lord Vaughn eyed her as though he wasn’t certain whether she was jesting. “Do you play the pianoforte, Miss Keating?”
“Well, yes. I do. I am not Mozart, but I can acquit myself passably well.”
“I am attending a house party in Richmond a fortnight hence and I will have an invitation sent to you care of Lady Wisterberg, if you will agree to attempt a duet with me. I would be so pleased if you could join us.”
Well!
Lady Wisterberg might very well need smelling salts when she told her this little bit of news.
Yet Lord Vaughn had not yet responded to his invitation to Lady Wisterberg’s party. Perhaps he was busy that evening. Perhaps he was undecided.
Her newly invigorated chaperone had, in fact, been full of information about Lord Vaughn earlier.
“Lord Vaughn’s parents would prefer him to marry someone with a title,” Lady Wisterberg had told her frankly in the carriage on the way to the ball. “His sister, Lady Lillias, who was quite the belle of the ton at one time, apparently married anAmerican—an American! With no title!—and hied off to the wilds of New York. They are all putting a brave face on it and claim that they’re pleased about it and that he’s a very fine fellow. But it suggests to me thatshouldhis son fall madly in love with an untitled girl who has only a very modest dowry, the earlmightbe amenable to a match. They are a very good family. In other words, Lord Vaughn is not a waste of your time, and he has asked you to dance twice now. I should be my most charming self, if I were you.”
Catherine wasn’t certain what her most charming self was. Did Lady Wisterberg perhaps think she was keeping something in reserve? And she didn’t love the mention of her “very modest dowry” any more than she loved the mention of her old dresses.
She couldn’t wait until the ton saw her in that blue gown at the Shillingford ball—mere days away now.
“Although, granted, the on-dit is that Lord Vaughn has shown no inclination to marry at all,” Lady Wisterberg had concluded, somewhat reluctantly. “See if you can change his mind.”
Catherine was amused at the notion of changing any man’s mind about anything.
She knew St. John Vaughn had never shot anyone—and he was right in that it did indeed, upon first consideration, seem avoidable for someone who wasn’t a soldier—because he’d never been challenged. And he’d never been challenged because he’d never sought challenge, unless the violincello counted. Or put himself in the way of challenge. Would never, ever need to do it. And that he was so well-bred, so free of ragged edges or unexpected angles, that he’d likely maneuver his wayout of a duel as easily as a china cup would slide out of wet hands. He would just apologize, and his honor wouldn’t twinge and his reputation would suffer no nicks. And while he was very attractive, which came with its own perils and lots of attention, he was male and an heir and would likely suffer few consequences even if his name were to appear in the gossip pages.
His point of view was reasonable and seemed as peaceful to her as a walk down a country lane.
And didn’t she enjoy country lanes?
There were more things she’d like to know about him.
But unlike “Have you ever shot a man?” she could hardly ask Lord Vaughn, “Have you ever traced a circle around a woman’s nipple with your thumb?”