Slightly Dangerous by Mary Balogh Page B

fetching. She was also wearing a dress of striped green-and-white poplin with lace-trimmed square neck and short sleeves that she had worn several times before—unlike her fellow guests, who changed several times a day and rarely wore the same thing twice. The dress was neither new nor in the first stare of fashion. He wondered if it was her best or the newly promoted second best.
    She looked remarkably pretty.
    “I will not disturb you, Mrs. Derrick.” He inclined his head to her, his hands clasped at his back. “Unless you care to walk with me, that is.”
    She had looked startled at first. Now she regarded him with that look that always intrigued him as much as it occasionally annoyed him. How could she smile—or rather laugh—when her face remained in repose?
    “Have you just returned from the ride?” she asked him. “And were you now attempting to escape the press of humanity? And then found me disturbing your solitude as I did once before? Except that this time I was here before you.”
    At least, he thought, here was someone who was not forever throwing herself in his path trying to win whatever contest the very young ladies had concocted among themselves.
    “
Will
you walk with me?” he asked her.
    For a few moments he thought she would refuse and was glad of it. Why the devil would he want the company of a woman who, in his opinion, ought not even to have been invited to this house party? But then she looked down at her letter, folded it and put it away in a side pocket of her dress, and got to her feet.
    “Yes,” she said.
    And then he was glad of
that
.
    It seemed like an eternity since any woman had stirred his blood. Rose had been gone for all of six months. It constantly surprised him to realize how much he mourned her loss. He had always thought theirs more a satisfactory business arrangement than a personal attachment.
    Christine Derrick undoubtedly—and quite inexplicably—stirred his blood. He became instantly more aware of the leafy branches overhead, the blue sky visible beyond, the sunlight making patterns of light and shade on the long grassy alley ahead. He became aware of the heat of the summer day, of the light breeze on his face, of the heavy, verdant fragrances of grass and leaves. The alley was loud with birdsong, though none of the songsters were visible.
    She fell into step beside him, the brim of her bonnet hiding her face from his view. She had not worn a bonnet during their lake walk, he remembered.
    “Was the ride pleasant?” she asked him. “I suppose you were born in the saddle.”
    “That might have been a little uncomfortable for my mother,” he said, and won for himself a glimpse of her face when she turned her head to smile rather impishly at him. “But, yes, thank you, the ride was pleasant.”
    He had never, actually, seen the point in riding about the countryside purely for pleasure, though his brothers and sisters had done it often—if
riding
was the appropriate word for what they had done. More often they had galloped neck or nothing, jumping any obstacle that happened to be in their path.
    “It is your turn now,” she said after a few moments.
    “I beg your pardon?” he asked her.
    “I asked a question,” she told him, “and you answered it. You might have elaborated for a few minutes, describing the ride and your destination and the stimulating conversation you enjoyed with the others. But you chose to answer with great brevity and no real information at all. Now it is your turn to attempt to make agreeable conversation between us.”
    She was laughing at him again. Nobody ever laughed at him. He found himself curiously intrigued that she would dare.
    “Was your letter pleasant?” he asked.
    She laughed out loud, a light, cheerful sound of genuine amusement.
    “Touché!” she said. “It was from Eleanor, my eldest sister. She has written to me even though she is only two miles away at Hyacinth Cottage. She is a compulsive and amusing