She proceeded to smooth her other glove. “I didn’t think you were serious about any of that. The forfeits, I mean. Indeed, for the last three days I…” She hesitated before continuing. “For the last three days, I’ve assumed you were making sport of me.”
St. Clare’s brows snapped together. “I wasn’t. Nor would I ever.”
“You say that, but—”
“Miss Honeywell, if you don’t stop fidgeting with your gloves and look at me, I shall be compelled to take your hand and hold it in mine.”
Her eyes shot to his. “You wouldn’t dare.”
St. Clare was gratified to see the return of her temper. “Try me.”
She folded her hands primly in her lap. “Satisfied?”
“Not by a long chalk. Now tell me, in earnest, will you come for a drive with me in the park tomorrow afternoon? I have a new curricle and the finest team of bays you’ve ever seen. It would be my pleasure to put them through their paces for you.”
“What makes you think any such thing would appeal to me?”
“Would it not?”
“For all you know I may be frightened of horses.”
His lips twitched. “You? Afraid of horses?”
“I might be.”
“All horses? Even match-bays? With faultless shoulders and first-rate legs?”
At his coaxing tone, the corner of her mouth trembled. But she didn’t smile. Instead, she cast him a thoroughly reproving glance. “Are you inviting me, my lord, or are you calling in a forfeit?”
“Whatever is necessary,” he answered.
She exhaled a breath. “You needn’t waste a forfeit. An invitation will do.” She added quickly, “But only because I’d like to see your cattle.”
“Naturally.” His heart thumped heavily. “I shall come for you at five if that’s agreeable.”
“It is. Thank you, my lord.”
“What a crush it is out there!” George Trumble entered the box. “Oh, I say! Didn’t know anyone else was here.” He handed a glass of lemonade to Miss Honeywell and another to Miss Trumble. “Everything all right, m’dear?”
“Perfectly,” Miss Trumble replied. “George, you’ve met Lord Mattingly, I presume? And Lord St. Clare? They’ve been keeping us company for the interval.”
St. Clare and Mattingly both rose and made their bows to him.
“Couldn’t resist coming to pay our respects to Miss Trumble and Miss Honeywell,” Mattingly said.
“I’m obliged to you,” Trumble replied.
“We were just about to take our leave. I’m afraid we’ve been neglecting the ladies in our own box, haven’t we, St. Clare?”
“Whereabouts are you sitting?” Miss Trumble asked.
“Straight across the way. One tier above and a little to the right.”
Miss Trumble raised her opera glasses. “Oh! Is that Miss Steele I see? She’s quite the belle of the season, I understand.”
“Brought my sister, Astrid, too,” Mattingly said. “The young lady in the front. She’s fresh from the schoolroom, you know.”
“She’s lovely,” Miss Trumble responded graciously. She lowered her glasses. “It seems you have a bevy of young ladies waiting for you. How selfish of us to keep you as long as we have.”
“We won’t keep you any longer,” Trumble said.
St. Clare ignored him. His attention was riveted on Miss Honeywell, and unless he was very much mistaken, her attention was equally engaged with him. He reached for her gloved hand and she gave it to him willingly. He bowed over it, retaining it in his grasp a few seconds longer than was proper. “Until tomorrow, Miss Honeywell.”
She met his gaze. “I look forward to it, my lord.”
He reluctantly let her go, and after taking his leave of Miss Trumble and her brother, left the theater box with Mattingly close behind him.
The passage was crowded with people bustling about during the interval. St. Clare navigated through the crush, proceeding toward the stairway that would take them back up to their own box. At the first opportunity, Mattingly drew level with him. “The Honeybee,” he said.
“What?” St. Clare asked, distracted.
“That’s what Margaret Honeywell was called during her come out.” Mattingly chuckled. “Not at first, mind. When she first arrived, all the gents were calling her the Pocket Venus. You never saw a girl so beautiful. And with such a figure! She drew quite a court around her, too. Then the first chap got stung. And then the second.” Mattingly reflected on this with evident appreciation. “Used to deliver some of the sharpest set-downs you ever heard. Rather indecorous as well. Galloping her horse in Hyde Park. Firing a pistol during a country house party. And that temper of hers! More spleen than sense, Miss Honeywell.”
St. Clare listened to his friend’s words with avid attention, all the while wondering how to reconcile