Sweet Rogue of Mine (The Survivors #9) - Shana Galen Page 0,37

she said again, just pleasant as you please.

Now, even if he wanted to sit beside her, he could not. Nash did not lose in battle. His aim was always true, and he always brought his opponent down. Even on that day when—no, he would not think of that day.

“You come sit beside me,” he said.

“There are two chairs here and room for our legs. Come, Mr. Pope, stop stalling. There is nothing to fear. I can already tell you will catch on quickly.”

Was he stalling? Was he afraid? He had never been afraid in his life. Not until he had opened his eyes and seen only blackness.

“Need I remind you, Miss Howard, we have no chaperone. Perhaps it would be safer for you if I remained over here.”

There was a long pause. “Really?” she said, sounding, not afraid, but amused. “You would behave like a scoundrel?”

Hold a moment. Now she sounded almost excited.

“What are you planning? Improper advances or will you go so far as to ravish me?”

Nash stood. “You think because I am blind I cannot overpower you and have my way with you?”

“Have your way with me? Oh, my!”

“Are you laughing at me, Miss Howard?”

“No! I’m simply amazed, Mr. Pope. Few men have ever deigned to look askance at me, and now one can hardly restrain himself in my presence.”

“I wouldn’t put it that way.”

“Then you can restrain yourself?” She sounded almost disappointed.

Nash placed both hands on the desk. “Should you not be afraid I might carry through on one of these warnings?”

“I can defend myself,” she said. “I have had to navigate the streets of Cairo and Paris and London. I’m not one of your ladies who has a footman trotting behind her, so I know the value of a well-aimed kick. Still, I cannot promise to defend myself. Perhaps I might enjoy your improper advances.”

Nash had to sit again. He had forgotten that he had met her singing “Bonny Black Hare.”

“I’ve shocked you,” she said.

“I have not shocked you,” he retorted.

“I don’t shock easily.”

Was that a challenge? Nash accepted.

“If you prefer to sit there, you may, but then perhaps we can chat until you are ready to move and begin the lesson.”

“You want to chat?”

“I have been wondering about the peacock we saw a couple of weeks ago. Has he been spotted again?”

“I have no idea.”

“I suppose all the workmen frightened him away. Do you think he is one of the original peacocks your father brought here? I was asking Mrs. Northgate about it, and she said there was a huge garden party and a shooting exhibition. Apparently, you amazed everyone with your skills.”

“I don’t want to talk about that.” He hadn’t thought of that day in years. He did not want to think of it now.

“She did not say whether the party was to celebrate the arrival of the peacocks, but that was what I assumed.”

“Who is Mrs. Northgate?”

Silence. “You do not know Mrs. Northgate? She’s lived in Milcroft for—well, probably all of her life. Which is a long time. She came to the garden party. She would have been younger then.”

“Obviously.” They had all been younger then. He had been nine? Ten? “What is this Mrs. Northgate to you?”

“She is helping me sew a dress. Most of mine are quite ugly and Mrs. Blimkin said that Mrs. Northgate has a better sense of fashion than almost anyone else in Milcroft. And of course, if anyone were to look at Miss Northgate or Miss Mary, it’s obviously true.”

Nash couldn’t keep up with all the names or connections, but he thought he was beginning to understand that Miss Howard was not like other women he had known. Nash had never met a woman who would admit her dresses were ugly or that men did not fall fawning at her feet. Nash would admit he was no judge of fashion, but he found it difficult to believe men did not fall at Miss Howard’s feet. She seemed refreshingly forthright and plainspoken. Against his better judgment, he could feel himself being charmed by her. He wondered what she looked like. He could make out the general shape of her. Compared to Rowden’s hulking form, she was slim but not short. She was tall and at times seemed more like a wisp of something than an actual form.

“What color is your dress today?” he asked.

“This one?” She sounded almost embarrassed. “I must confess, it’s quite the ugliest dress I have ever seen. It’s the color of old mashed peas.