a positive terror of anticipation.” His eyes slid over her, slowly, assessingly, and she had the odd notion that it felt like a physical touch. She wanted to shake it off. “One more thing, Lady Carstairs,” he said, and his voice had lost that taunting edge. “You are not to come here unaccompanied again. In fact, you are not to come here at all. I refuse to be trapped into compromising you—I have far more convivial plans for my future.”
“As do I, Lord Rohan,” she said in an even voice. “Point well taken. I’ll be ready by half past nine.”
“If you’re punctual you’ll be the first woman in my acquaintance to manage it.”
“That’s simply because women put off having to be with you for as long as possible,” she said in her sweetest voice. “Good afternoon, my lord.”
“My lady.” She left, but, before the butler could close the door behind her, she heard his soft chuckle. Benedick sank back down in his chair, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. He must be very bored, indeed, if he found he was looking forward to an evening in Charity Carstairs’s company. He didn’t believe the faradiddle she was coming up with, not for a moment, but it was clear she thought it was gospel truth. And he hadn’t anything better to do tonight. The Elsmeres were bores, but he knew others among his friends would be there, and if his recent visitor wanted to play at being a detective then he had no problem encouraging her. She tried so very hard to be calm and matter-of-fact, and it was so very easy to trip her up. He would take her to the Elsmeres, make the proper inquiries and see how wicked he could be before she cried off. Her concerns about the Heavenly Host and its nefarious activities were just one more fairy tale. The group had disbanded shortly after a horrendous gathering at the edge of the Lake District, where his sodding son of a bitch brother-in-law had dared to bring his sister. The repercussions had been so scandalous that no one had even dared to suggest resurrecting the group of tiresome little sybarites.
At least, he was relatively sure he would have heard if they did. Except that he hadn’t been in town for years, not since Barbara had taken to bedding every one of his acquaintance, and not, of course, for the following year of mourning. And if they had re-formed, wouldn’t Brandon be more than likely to have been one of them?
No, he refused to consider the possibility. But in the meantime, Charity Carstairs, with her sweetly curved body, her soft mouth, her stern blue eyes would provide quite a delightful diversion.
He heard Richmond clear his throat, and he glanced up at him. “Did you put the box of cakes in the carriage?”
“I did, my lord. Shall I ask Cook to bake more?”
He considered it for a moment. He’d never had much of a sweet tooth. Except when it came to a certain crusading female. “It might be wise to keep a supply on hand, Richmond. We’ll be seeing more of Lady Carstairs, I suspect.”
“Very good, my lord,” Richmond murmured.
And oddly enough, Benedick was quite sure he meant it.
Rohan’s coach was the epitome of elegance, and Melisande sat back against the leather squabs with a sigh. She could more than afford such an equipage, but luxury always seemed a bit obscene when contrasted with the life the gaggle had led. Still, that didn’t mean she couldn’t enjoy it when it was forced upon her.
He really was the most annoying man.
She’d tried to come up with any other alternative—going to one of the Wicked Rohans was the last thing she’d wanted to do. In fact, she’d set out this afternoon without the proper companions because she was afraid she’d lose her nerve. She hadn’t really expected him to agree, but she could think of nothing else and she simply couldn’t give up.
The ride to King Street was short, and she didn’t notice the box on the seat opposite her until they’d almost arrived. She reached out for it, looking at the card on the top. Written in a heavy scrawl, it was addressed to her. No note, no signature, but she knew it was from Rohan. She untied the string and opened it, and an unbidden laugh came from the back of her throat.
It was a box of the tiny cakes she’d eaten as she’d drank his tea. Curse his black soul,