and the like will start arriving any day. She’s a bit . . . I do wonder if . . . well, she talked to a flower today when she was pulling it. She apologized to it, and then thanked it.”
“She apologized to the flower ?”
“And then thanked it.”
“Sounds downright pagan. Perhaps she is a witch, and she’s casting a spell on all those men.” He waggled all ten fingers in Genevieve’s face like a conjurer. “One never knows what Americans get up to. Perhaps she wanted to visit the graveyard for a bit of graveyard dust, which I hear is useful in spells.”
Genevieve snorted softly. “I don’t think magic has anything much to do with it. Unless she can disorient men by batting her lashes and then—abracadabra!—transform them into glazed-eyed fools.”
Ian was pensive. “I do wonder something . . . she might be a bit hard of hearing. She seems to lose control over the volume of her voice rather regularly for no discernible reason. And does she have a tic? She tips her head back at odd times.”
“I’ve noticed the bit with the volume! Not with the head. Poor dear, to be so afflicted.”
“Yes, let’s pity the poor dear who has men eating out of her hand,” he teased Genevieve. “That should make her more tolerable to you and all the other women.”
She pushed him again.
“I knew a bloke like that at Cambridge who was subject to twitches and shouting. You’d be in the middle of a deep conversation, say, about economics or the Peloponnesian war, and all of a sudden his head would jerk violently to the left and he’d shout ‘Bollocks!’ Or something more profane than even I am comfortable saying aloud to you. All in all, a capital bloke, however. One got used to it. He said it was because he was dropped on the coal hod when he was a baby. But I doubt Miss Danforth is mad, or was dropped on the coal hod.”
“Conversations with you are always so edifying, Ian.”
“You’re welcome,” he said cheerily.
“Olivia doesn’t like her.”
“Olivia doesn’t like anyone easily,” Ian said shortly.
“Landsdowne sent Miss Danforth a book of country dances today.”
Ian went silent and his hands stilled momentarily on his musket.
“Did he?” he said disinterestedly.
He pictured his sister watching Miss Danforth dance with Landsdowne, his proud, proud sister who would never grovel or maneuver her way into a waltz the way Tansy Danforth had, who had already lost enough, and something cold and hard that didn’t bode well for Miss Danforth settled in his gut.
Ian was in fact considerably more skeptical of Miss Danforth than he was willing to reveal yet to Genevieve. Or to anyone. He was willing to watch and bide his time.
“And I know you aren’t preparing to ravish her, Ian, because I’d never speak to you again, and I know you’ll miss my conversation.”
“Nonsense. You aren’t that interesting,” he said easily.
But temper tensed his muscles, tightened his grip on his musket. He had only himself to blame; he wasn’t entitled to righteousness in that regard. He didn’t like the reminder, however.
“Are you any closer to buying a house in Sussex?” he asked.
“Falconbridge is most interested in Lilymont. It was Miss Danforth’s home as a girl, did you know? As charming a place as you’ll ever see. Rather compact for a duke, however.” She smiled.
He went still.
Lilymont. He knew the house. It was small. From its hill one could see the downs rippling outward and a generous silver wedge of the sea. Large windows and gracious simple lines, and weathered stone walls, amber in the sunlight. An ample, but not too ample, garden of fruited and flowering trees was enclosed by a high stone wall with wild vines of flowers growing up it. It would need a little taming, but only a little. He liked things a bit wild, a bit disheveled. He liked things to be themselves, when at all possible.
He’d never seen a more perfect house, in its way.
It was interesting to hear Tansy
“She apologized to the flower ?”
“And then thanked it.”
“Sounds downright pagan. Perhaps she is a witch, and she’s casting a spell on all those men.” He waggled all ten fingers in Genevieve’s face like a conjurer. “One never knows what Americans get up to. Perhaps she wanted to visit the graveyard for a bit of graveyard dust, which I hear is useful in spells.”
Genevieve snorted softly. “I don’t think magic has anything much to do with it. Unless she can disorient men by batting her lashes and then—abracadabra!—transform them into glazed-eyed fools.”
Ian was pensive. “I do wonder something . . . she might be a bit hard of hearing. She seems to lose control over the volume of her voice rather regularly for no discernible reason. And does she have a tic? She tips her head back at odd times.”
“I’ve noticed the bit with the volume! Not with the head. Poor dear, to be so afflicted.”
“Yes, let’s pity the poor dear who has men eating out of her hand,” he teased Genevieve. “That should make her more tolerable to you and all the other women.”
She pushed him again.
“I knew a bloke like that at Cambridge who was subject to twitches and shouting. You’d be in the middle of a deep conversation, say, about economics or the Peloponnesian war, and all of a sudden his head would jerk violently to the left and he’d shout ‘Bollocks!’ Or something more profane than even I am comfortable saying aloud to you. All in all, a capital bloke, however. One got used to it. He said it was because he was dropped on the coal hod when he was a baby. But I doubt Miss Danforth is mad, or was dropped on the coal hod.”
“Conversations with you are always so edifying, Ian.”
“You’re welcome,” he said cheerily.
“Olivia doesn’t like her.”
“Olivia doesn’t like anyone easily,” Ian said shortly.
“Landsdowne sent Miss Danforth a book of country dances today.”
Ian went silent and his hands stilled momentarily on his musket.
“Did he?” he said disinterestedly.
He pictured his sister watching Miss Danforth dance with Landsdowne, his proud, proud sister who would never grovel or maneuver her way into a waltz the way Tansy Danforth had, who had already lost enough, and something cold and hard that didn’t bode well for Miss Danforth settled in his gut.
Ian was in fact considerably more skeptical of Miss Danforth than he was willing to reveal yet to Genevieve. Or to anyone. He was willing to watch and bide his time.
“And I know you aren’t preparing to ravish her, Ian, because I’d never speak to you again, and I know you’ll miss my conversation.”
“Nonsense. You aren’t that interesting,” he said easily.
But temper tensed his muscles, tightened his grip on his musket. He had only himself to blame; he wasn’t entitled to righteousness in that regard. He didn’t like the reminder, however.
“Are you any closer to buying a house in Sussex?” he asked.
“Falconbridge is most interested in Lilymont. It was Miss Danforth’s home as a girl, did you know? As charming a place as you’ll ever see. Rather compact for a duke, however.” She smiled.
He went still.
Lilymont. He knew the house. It was small. From its hill one could see the downs rippling outward and a generous silver wedge of the sea. Large windows and gracious simple lines, and weathered stone walls, amber in the sunlight. An ample, but not too ample, garden of fruited and flowering trees was enclosed by a high stone wall with wild vines of flowers growing up it. It would need a little taming, but only a little. He liked things a bit wild, a bit disheveled. He liked things to be themselves, when at all possible.
He’d never seen a more perfect house, in its way.
It was interesting to hear Tansy
Similar Books
