Mistletoe and Mayhem - Cheryl Bolen Page 0,144

she gave him a covert glance. He looked thoughtful and said at last, “Courageous of you.”

“More likely foolhardy,” she admitted, “but one should stand up for one’s principles. It seems frightfully unfair that a gentleman can’t simply deny any wrongdoing and refuse to be forced into marriage.”

“I daresay, but it’s a question of honor,” Cecil said.

“A question of male stupidity,” she muttered. “Honor has to make sense. I shan’t flirt with Lord Restive anymore, but—”

“Good,” he said. When she stopped to stare, he chuckled. “That was the worst attempt at flirtation I have ever seen.”

She couldn’t help but laugh in return. “I know, I know, I have never been able to flirt. In any event, avoiding flirtation will not suffice. For Lord Restive’s sake, I must warn him.” She bit her lip. “I cannot allow Mother to destroy his reputation as an honorable man, which is so absurd, as she would be the dishonorable one, not he or I.”

Cecil shrugged.

It was always a waste of energy to discuss honor with a gentleman. “Nevertheless, I dare not speak with him privately for even two minutes. Mother will notice and cause an outcry.”

“I’ll let him know to avoid you like the plague,” Cecil said. “I don’t suppose the Contessa will object if he confines his attentions to her.”

“Oh, is she his lover?” Dorothea asked.

An innocent young lady shouldn’t know about illicit love, much less speak openly of it, but Cecil wasn’t surprised. She was the daughter of a spymaster and a close friend of young Lady Boltwood, who had once been a smuggler. She attended meetings where the talk was frank and open. She couldn’t help but know a little about life outside the restricted world of an unmarried lady.

One who refused to wed. Did she find gentlemen distasteful? No, she hadn’t indicated that. She wanted to choose for herself, and why shouldn’t she?

Ideally, she would choose him. He should use this opportunity to get to know her better, and vice versa.

When Sir Frederick Darsington had assigned Cecil to keep an eye on her at various meetings—gatherings of avid reformers at which he played the role of a quiet, somewhat grim down-and-out—she was almost always accompanied by another lady and a footman, so he wasn’t really needed for protection. Cecil’s role was to ensure she didn’t develop a tendre for someone unsuitable, without becoming infatuated with her himself. Apparently, all the other fellows assigned this role had failed. God only knew why Sir Frederick had entrusted the job to Cecil; evidently, he was as susceptible as the next fellow. He had fallen in love with her bit by bit, with her intelligence and courage and kindness, while she hadn’t been aware of him at all.

She wasn’t likely to fall in love with him now—but it was worth a try.

“I beg your pardon,” she said stiffly. “I shouldn’t have asked something so improper.”

“Why not? It’s a valid question, particularly if it will save you from being compromised by Lord Restive. Such liaisons are commonplace at house parties…so I expect either she is his lover or soon will be.”

Dorothea sighed. In distaste? Or…some other emotion? He glanced at her profile, but they had reached the drawing room doorway, and she removed her hand from his arm to precede him into the room.

A roaring fire and the voice of Lord Wellough greeted them. “We cornered the little fellow, and my hounds tore him to bits.”

Now her expression was definitely one of distaste.

“It was the best run I’ve ever—” He broke off. “Well, well! Who have we here?”

Lady Alice came forward and performed the introductions. Charles Dufair turned to a new page in his sketchbook and eyed Dorothea with intent; the ruddy-faced Lord Wellough, who was Restive’s cousin, surged forward. “My dear Miss Darsington! Such exquisite beauty!” He grabbed her hand and bestowed a smacking kiss upon it.

The poor girl reddened, but Wellough didn’t notice her discomfort. “How fortunate that you have joined us. Come, ignore that French artist fellow—he sketches everyone—and sit with me. Your Papa is an old friend of mine, you know.”

He would have towed her away, but Lady Alice intervened. “And here is our vicar, Mr. Kelly. Mrs. Kelly will join us later.”

“The parishioners are decorating the church for Christmas,” Mr. Kelly said, “and my wife intends to supervise them to the bitter end or dinnertime, whichever comes first. Welcome to our little village, Miss Darsington.”

She thanked him, but Lord Wellough nudged the vicar aside. “Come now, tell me what your rascally