The Girl is Not For Christmas - Emma V Leech Page 0,29
her.
“No. Do not…. Not another word. My head is spinning and either I am going quite mad, or you are suggesting I meet you in the gardens before lunch, so I may… So we might….”
“Tr—”
“I said to be silent!”
Livvy closed her mouth again, folded her hands primly in her lap, and waited.
He let out a breath.
“Please, I beg you, do not use that word again,” he said, looking as though he meant it. “I am not convinced you have the slightest idea what it means, or what you are suggesting, but I do know ladies of your…type…do not go around propositioning men like me.”
“May I speak now?” Livvy asked politely.
Kingston waved a hand at her with an expression of resignation.
“I understand a tr—that word—to describe an illicit, romantic interlude between lovers, and what the devil do you mean, ladies of my type? Do you mean old maids?” she demanded with a surge of indignation. She supposed, strictly speaking, that was just what she was, but really one did not like to have it flung in one’s face.
“No-oo,” he replied, drawing the word out in such a way that suggested his patience was fraying. “I mean that gently bred young ladies do not go about propositioning men at the breakfast table.”
“Oh,” Livvy replied tartly, folding her arms. “Should I have waited for dinner? Is that how it’s done? I just assumed my brother might interfere in the matter.”
“Don’t be facetious, and you know perfectly well that if there is any propositioning to be done, it’s my job as the resident libertine to do it!”
He looked so indignant that Livvy had to work at keeping a straight face, but she was reasonably steady when she nodded her understanding and replied, “I do beg your forgiveness, my lord. You may proceed.”
“Proceed?”
“Yes,” she said impatiently. “If you are going to proposition me, you’d best get on with it. The children will wonder where I’ve got to.”
To her immense frustration, he got to his feet, tossed his napkin to the table, and strode away.
“Where are you going?” she demanded.
He turned in the doorway and looked back at her. “To bed, Miss Penrose. I believe I have suffered a relapse. However, when I come down again, I feel certain I will discover this has all been a vastly disturbing dream. The result, I don’t doubt, of my wasted life of dissipation. I admit I have never regretted indulging in drink more in my life. I bid you a good day.”
With that, he bowed politely and left the room.
Chapter Seven
9th December 1818.
The sea, a seduction, a troubled conscience and a kiss.
Walsh gave his master a dubious glance. “You’re pulling my leg.”
King reclined against the pillows on his bed, massaging his temples with delicate fingertips. “I assure you I am not. Bold as brass she was, asking if I could spare half an hour before lunch. Half an hour! I ask you.”
“Are you more upset that she beat you to it, or that she underestimates your stamina?” Walsh asked mildly.
King returned an arctic glare. “Neither. I have no designs on Miss Penrose. The poor woman is addled. She must be, to think I’d take liberties with my friend’s sister under his own roof. Good God, what does she think I am?”
“Begging your pardon, my lord, but she thinks you’re a libertine, and by definition—”
“Yes, yes, I thank you, Walsh,” King retorted, realising Miss Penrose was correct, he really did sound waspish now, damn her eyes. “I have no requirement for you to spell out all the ways in which she believes me to be the devil incarnate, but that begs the question, what in blazes is she up to? Does she think to trap me in marriage?”
Walsh uttered a choked sound, very much like a smothered laugh.
“What the hell does that mean?”
His valet made a heroic effort to rearrange his face, but King knew the blighter well enough to realise he was enjoying a bit of sport at his employer’s expense.
“Nothing, sir,” Walsh replied, sounding like he might strain something.
“Yes, yes, vastly amusing,” King groused. “But as far removed from eligible as I may be, I am an earl, and a woman in her position can’t be too choosy. An earl in the hand is worth Mr Skewes in the bush, I don’t doubt. My father will die one day, after all, and then I’ll be a wealthy marquess.”
“Your father is as hale and hearty as a man half his age, beg pardon for mentioning it.”