The Wagered Widow by Patricia Veryan Page A

obstructing article.
    â€œWould you wish that I place your bonnet on the table for you, fair conspirator?” asked de Villars, suddenly materializing at her side.
    She jerked her hat away, even as he reached for it. “I most decidedly would not! And furthermore, Mr. de Villars, I never have, nor ever shall, conspire with you in aught, and would be grateful did you not address me in such fashion.”
    The gleam left his grey eyes. He looked levelly at her for a moment, then, as though invisible guards had been lowered, said wistfully, “That is unkind in you, pretty one. Did I not pave the way for your—er, summer amusement?”
    However she might begrudge the admission, it was truth. She had been rude, behaviour as foreign to her as was this new side of Trevelyan de Villars. Confused because she felt so at sea, she stammered, “If you consider it amusing to guide a young lady to her come-out—yes. And I do thank you for your, er, help.”
    His gaze held on her, but in some subtle way his expression had changed. He said, “Patience? I take it that Ward has described her to you?”
    â€œNot in so many words.” He had sounded faintly incredulous. The poor girl must be extreme ill-favoured! Uneasy, Rebecca pointed out that it was her aunt who might perhaps guide Miss Ashton. “I,” she reminded, “shall be here purely—”
    â€œOh, very purely, I do not doubt.”
    Rebecca blushed scarlet and lowered her lashes, scored by guilt and yearning to scratch the odious creature.
    De Villars grinned. “I assume that Boothe is capable of arranging his own summer holiday and will not require my assistance.”
    Stiffening, Rebecca rested a frowning gaze upon him.
    â€œHowever,” he went on musingly, “unless I mistake the fellow, he will wish to express his—ah, appreciation for my efforts in your behalf. If you’ve writ him…” Rebecca not rising to the bait, he nodded and said in a thoughtful way, “It would be better, of course, had you not mentioned my part in your … scheme.”
    Feeling like a conniving Jezebel, Rebecca unclamped her locked jaws and uttered a saintly, “I do not lie to my brother, sir.”
    â€œNo.” His head bowed. “Of course you do not. One can tell at a glance that you are all that is pure and good. And … there’s the snag, d’you see? Any brother worth his salt, and Boothe is worth that at least, would seek to shield so innocent a girl from such an—ignoble rascal as … I.” Lifting his head, he revealed again that oddly boyish humility, so that Rebecca, who had bristled because of his sly jibe at Snowden, was inexplicably touched.
    â€œI had not heard you described in just that way, Mr. de Villars. Your reputation, so far as I am aware, has largely to do with the ladies.” She glanced at the dozing Monahan, and could not forbear to add, “Of a certain class.”
    He turned swiftly away and when next he spoke his voice was somewhat muffled, as though choked by emotion. “You are too kind. Ah, had I only been so fortunate as to meet a girl of your character long ago. Alas, it was otherwise. And I, a stupid young fool, betrayed by my love, and—” He broke off with an impatient gesture. “Forgive me. You cannot wish to hear all that ancient history.”
    â€œFrom what little I had heard, sir,” she said, watching his averted profile intently, “the shoe was rather on the other foot.”
    He turned back to her, a whimsical half-smile on his lips. “You do speak your mind, Little Parrish!”
    Again flustered, she gasped, “Oh, good gracious! I have no right—I mean—”
    â€œNo, no. Never guard your tongue with me, I implore. So few people say what is truly in their hearts. Is what makes you so refreshing. As for your remark, ’twas well justified, perhaps—” He shrugged. “But,