“Pluckanda penchant for plain speaking, too—truly a product of the enlightened age.” He was still smiling, but a hint of disapproval had crept into his eyes. “In this case, however, you are only partially correct. I’ve no wish toupsetyou. Unsettle, though—ah, that may well be a different story.”
Millie flinched as he touched her face a second time.
“As I said, your beauty has a strange effect on me, Miss Millicent.” Again, his voice went warm. “In your presence, I completely forget my manners.”
Noteverymanner, she hoped.
“I beg you to put my mind at ease.” Now, his voice was silk. “Isthis Mr. Winter a rival?”
“No,” she found herself replying honestly. His eyes really were quite dazzling. “Mr. Winter is the gamekeeper at Willowhurst. Or, at least, he was when we lived there. He may have been pensioned by the new owner. We sold our family home after my father passed.”
And now she was babbling. What was wrong with her?
“May I confide my relief?” he asked, quite softly.
Confide?
The word felt intimate. Without meaning to do so, she leaned forward.
Then, a sudden gush of cold air brought her back to her senses. She blinked and shook her head, glancing with alarm toward her sister’s house. The footman’s scowl was fixed on Willard.
Willard followed her gaze. “Ah.”
“Ah,” she repeated. Grateful he’d noticed. Grateful, now too, that Cassie had taken the previously unwelcome precaution.
“I had thought coming upon you alone an opportunity too good to be true.”
Her lips turned down. Why would he want to come upon her alone?
“Why, indeed?” he asked softly.
“To what question are you replying?”
“I’m afraid, my sweet, you have a veryreadableface.”
His sweet?“Do you think so? I’m not sure how you could know. Perhaps you may be reading me wrong.”
“Possible, I suppose,” he agreed. “I have heard there are men who can smile and smile and still be villains.” His smile broadened. “I assure you, I am not one of those.”
Odd, how he had unwittingly echoed Lenora’s description. She too had used the phrase. What had she said?All-the-while smiling, smiling, and smiling. Why did the repetition seem familiar?
“Hamlet,” she murmured, suddenly placing the quote.
“Correct,” he replied. “Tell me”—he squinted off into the street—“are your tastes literary, or does your knowledge of the bard betray a theatrical interest?”
“Both,” she answered, relieved to be on more familiar conversational ground.
“I have boxes at both Royal theaters, you know.”
“Oh? Do you attend often?”
“As a matter of fact, I intend to escort my mother to the Theater Royal in Covent Garden this evening. Shakespeare, too.” He studied her for a long moment. “Perhaps our unlikely encounter this afternoon is providential. Might you wish to join me?”
She hadn’t anticipated his question.
Then again, should she have? Any true gentleman should know that extending an invitation to a young lady without consulting her guardian first was wrong.
“Yes.” He smiled again. “I should have approached your guardian first. As a matter of fact, I have just come from an attempt to do so. When I couldn’t find him, I sought you out.”