of the men vying for the duke’s attention seemed satisfied with the conversation, and bowed before retreating to another part of the chamber. One man, however—Lord Hunsdon—continued to hover close.
The wisest thing would be to steer clear of the duke and spend her time learning more about her fellow Bazaar guests.
And yet she walked purposefully in his direction—as if she could not stop herself. As if she was ruled not by her mind, but something far wilder and entirely unpredictable.
Chapter 5
Noel barely listened to Viscount Hunsdon’s words as, without moving his head, he tracked Lady Whitfield walking toward him.
She brightened the atmosphere of Trask’s drawing room. Their brief conversation on the doorstep and then on the landing had reverberated over and over in his mind, drowning out Trask’s usual introductory remarks.
It had not been a very long exchange, but damn him if it hadn’t been the most stimulating conversation he’d had in years. Outside of the four men he considered his closest friends, he couldn’t remember meeting anyone who had been able to meet him verbal blow for verbal blow.
As he’d sat beside her on the sofa, there had been a palpable vibrancy to her, as though, like the hawk he’d likened her to, she could spread her wings and take flight at any moment to wheel through the sky. Anticipation coursed through him—he looked forward to a delicious pursuit.
“It’s rudimentary knowledge that English agrarian systems are infinitely superior to those which are practiced on the Continent,” Hunsdon droned on. “I was saying to Liverpool the other day—we’re quite intimate, you know, the prime minister and I—that what English farmers do best is . . .”
Noel drew straight as Lady Whitfield came to stand nearby. A warm, sweet scent teased him, and brought his body to full attention.
“I beg your forgiveness for interrupting,” she said in a husky voice. Her gaze slid past Noel and she smiled as she looked at Hunsdon.
“My lord,” she said, “I believe that your opinion on crop rotation is being solicited by the gentlemen over there.” She nodded toward Trask and three other men engaged in serious discussion.
“Oh, indeed?” Hunsdon’s eyebrows rose in surprise, then he quickly assumed an expression of jaded superiority. “Naturally. There’s few who know as much about turnips as I do. Excuse me, Your Grace, Lady Whitfield.”
He bowed, then strode across the room to the other group. Before any of the men could speak, Hunsdon launched into a considerable lecture, with the words Pliny the Elder and taproot being repeated several times. His audience could only listen dazedly.
“That makes us even, I believe,” Lady Whitfield murmured.
“Madam?”
“You gained me entrance to the Bazaar, and I liberated you from your agriculturally minded friend’s verbose company.” She glanced at Noel, her lips quirking. “Unless I was presumptuous. It did look as though you were moments away from throwing Lord Hunsdon out a window.”
“You’ve no idea how often I entertain that thought.”
She nodded, her expression serious. “I imagine the streets of Mayfair would be covered with unconscious noblemen.”
Oh, but he liked her, and the fact that she was entirely unexpected made her even more delightful. “Makes it difficult to drive one’s phaeton.”
“Let’s not be hasty,” she said pertly. “It might add some zest to the experience—a living obstacle course that will try the skill of anyone who claims to be an expert at the ribbons.”
Her eyes were the color of dark honey, and the mind behind them fascinated him. It was rare for him to converse with someone and not know what they were going to say next. He felt slightly off balance, a shade uncertain, and the most shocking thing was the pleasure that sensation gave him.
“I . . .” He searched his mind for something to talk about. “Are you long out of mourning?”
Very nice, you ass. Perhaps next you could splash lemon juice in her eyes.
“I’d rather not discuss it,” she said.
“My apologies if I’ve been indelicate with your feelings, or if I’ve upset you.”
To his surprise, she gave a soft laugh. “Fear not, Your Grace. I’m made of sturdier stuff, and it takes more than a handful of words to cause me injury. Now, if you promise me a pint of bitters but give me pale ale instead, then, perhaps, I might take offense.”
“I will never wrong you thusly, madam.” A lick of heat traveled along his spine as they shared a smile. “I am disappointed in myself, however.”