The Wallflower Wager - Tessa Dare Page 0,22
and the world in general.
Lady Penelope laughed. Of course she did.
She unknotted the fichu from about her neck and dabbed at his shirt, oblivious to the amount of cleavage she’d exposed to his view. Her lips curved in a fetching smile. “I think Angus has made my case for me.”
He shook his head. “From now on, we communicate in writing.”
“We live next door to each other. That’s absurd.”
“It’s necessary. This will be the last time we find ourselves alone. Animals don’t count as chaperones. Not even phlegmy ones. Do you understand me?”
“You’re vastly underestimating my pets’ ability to prevent scandal.”
Swearing under his breath, he caught her chin and tipped her face to his. “Your Ladyship, you are vastly underestimating yourself.”
Chapter Nine
Two days later, and Gabe’s plans had already gone to hell.
The lady was impossible. When he’d written her about the otter, he’d given explicit instructions in his note. Be ready to leave at half-seven, sharp. Dress for the weather. Most importantly, bring a companion.
She brought the parrot.
The parrot.
They were miles beyond London’s borders already, and Gabe still couldn’t believe it. Look at him. Trapped in a barouche with a lady, a parrot, and an otter. He’d landed in the center of an absurd joke. One certain to end in uproarious laughter—at his expense.
He shifted unhappily on the carriage seat. “Did you really have to bring that bird?”
“Yes.” She stroked the otter’s sleek brown coat. “I think Alexandra and Chase will take her in. Their two girls love to play pirates. But as you pointed out, Delilah’s vocabulary needs a bit of reformation, so I’m trying to instill some wholesome phrases in her repertoire. Considering that I’ve only a fortnight, I can’t afford to waste a day.” She leaned in close to the birdcage and brightly cooed—as she had no fewer than a hundred times since they’d departed Bloom Square—“I love you.”
The bird whistled. “Pretty girl.”
“I love you.”
“Fancy a fuck, love?”
“I love you.”
The bird ruffled its garish plumage. “Yes! Yes! Yes!”
She was undaunted. “I love y—“
“It’s pointless,” he interjected. “A waste of time. Even if you succeed in teaching the bird a new phrase or two, it’s never going to forget the old ones. Years of filth won’t simply wash off with one good rain. That’s like saying you’d lose your finishing school airs with a single”—soul-stirring, passionate kiss—“act of mild rebellion.”
She squared her posture, pulling her spine fence-post straight. “I don’t have finishing school airs.”
“To be sure, you don’t,” he grumbled. “Keep telling yourself that, Your Ladyship.”
“Will you please stop addressing me that way. Everyone I’m close to calls me Penny.”
“We’re not close.”
“We are the very definition of close.”
Good God. Did she have to point it out? They were altogether too close in this carriage, in a way that made him ache to be closer. His body was painfully aware of hers.
Gabe despised the aristocracy. He’d told himself he could never lust after a fine lady.
Apparently, he’d told himself lies.
“We are neighbors,” she said. “Our houses stand right beside each other. That makes us close.”
“It doesn’t make us friends.”
She turned her attention back to the parrot, resuming her singsong torture. “I love you. I loooove you.”
“Enough.” Gabe wrestled out of his coat—no small accomplishment in a carriage—and draped it over the birdcage. “The bird needs a rest.” I need a rest.
She pouted a bit, and he was unmoved.
Pretty girl, fancy a fuck, I love you, I love you, I love you . . .
The words were becoming a jumble in his mind—and his mind was a place where “fuck,” “love,” and one particular “pretty girl” must remain separate things.
“You can stop staring at me,” he said.
“Sorry. I was wondering if I could actually watch your whiskers grow. When we left London, you were clean-shaven. Now it’s not even noon, and you’re raspy already. It’s like weeds after a rain. Fascinating.” She shook herself. “Tell me where it is we’re going.”
“The country home of a gentleman I know. His son has been begging for a ferret.”
“Hubert isn’t a ferret! He’s an otter.”
“As far as this boy is concerned, he’s a ferret. Just follow my lead.”
“Surely you’re joking.”
“He’s five years old. He won’t know the difference.”
“He won’t stay five years old forever.”
“Yes, but by then it won’t matter. It’s like that children’s story with the swan’s egg in the duck’s nest. He’ll be The Ugly Ferret.”
“A five-year-old child can’t take proper care of an otter. Or a ferret for that matter.”
“So you’ll leave specific instructions.”
She shook her head. “You may as well