My Sweet Folly by Laura Kinsale

did not think him very far past forty, in spite of the gray in his straight brown hair. She gave him an affectionate, pert smile as she curtsied, and was rewarded with a laugh and wink from direct green eyes, as if they had known one another all their lives. There was no Lady Dingley at his side.
    “Sends her deepest regrets,” Sir Howard said cheerfully. “Don’t get out much, you know. Fancies herself stricken by the headache.”
    Folie and Melinda expressed polite sympathy, but Sir Howard waved it off. “Nothing a bit of fresh air could not cure, I tell her. But she pays me no mind.”
    “Naturally not, if you are so brutal,” Folie said. “Ladies must have a very strong dose of fellow feeling before they can recover the headache.”
    “Brutal!” he said. “Ha!”
    Folie shook her head. “I often wonder that gentlemen can be so slow to learn these simple facts.”
    “And you, missy, are entirely too full of sauce for a chit of your age, I see that at a glance.”
    Folie dropped a curtsy. “Why, thank you, sir! You are quite charming for a barbarian!”
    Robert stood by the fireplace, watching Folie’s face, caught between a vague angry disgust at this flirtation and the laughter that had come into her eyes the moment she responded to Sir Howard’s bow. It was like a strong touch on a place he had locked in his heart, the way he had locked her miniature in a velvet strong-box. “I hope your daughters are well, Sir Howard?’’ he asked coolly.
    “Too well!” his guest said. “Would that they would all take to their beds with the headache!”
    Folie laughed. “How many children have you, sir?”
    “Seven girls!” Sir Howard exclaimed. “Can you believe it?”
    Folie thought it was no wonder Lady Dingley had developed the headache. She glanced inadvertently toward Robert. Their eyes met. A roguish, stifled smile changed his whole aspect so suddenly that Folie felt as if a spike of sweet lightning had struck her throat.
    “What fun!” Miss Melinda said. “I should love to have so many sisters!”
    “Take any number you please off my hands,” Sir Howard said carelessly. “We have plenty to spare.”
    Folie turned in surprise when Lander entered to announce dinner. It was far too early for any normal civility. Robert stepped toward Folie, but Sir Howard had already tucked her hand into his arm with a jocund announcement that he knew Mr. Cambourne would not begrudge him the honor of taking Mrs. Hamilton in. Folie accepted his escort with relief. Deliberately, she laid the rosebud on a side table as she passed through the door.
    Robert looked at it. He lifted his eyes and found Miss Melinda regarding him with interest. He offered her his arm and took her in.
    With the ladies seated, Sir Howard took a leather chair at the foot of the table and cast a glance about the dining room. He shook his head at the dragons. “Damned feverish mind it took, to carve this stuff! Don’t think I could live with it more than a day, myself.”
    Melinda sat with her hands in her lap, looking uneasy. Folie said archly, “We don’t dare mention the decoration here, Sir Howard. Our host dislikes it. Although I must say I find myself growing rather fond of Xerxes and Boswell.” She nodded toward the dragons.
    “Mama,” Melinda warned in a soft voice.
    Folie lifted her chin and took a sip of wine. She felt a light flush coloring her cheeks, as if she had already drunk much more than a swallow of the claret Lander had just poured.
    Sir Howard cleared his throat, looking down the long table at his host. “Well then. Do you hunt, sir?”
    “No, I have hunted very little,” Robert said.
    “Pity, pity...I keep a pack of hounds—five pups this morning—thought you might like to take a look at ‘em tomorrow.”
    Robert felt an instant misgiving at the thought of leaving the house. “How big is your pack?’’ he asked, turning the subject.
    “No more than twenty couple. Quality over quantity, eh, Mrs. Hamilton? Do