Page 15 of The Deceptive Earl
For the moment, Lady Charity was an appealing distraction. Certainly she was pleasant to look at, soft in all the right places. Still she was a lady of theTon, not a light skirt. Neville had always harbored a soft spot for women of deep and particular softness. He was not attracted to women who were long of limb and fine boned like the shop girl who was batting her eyelashes at him or for that matter, Miss Macrum who seemed to think that she was making headway with him.
He could not see why a man would want to bed a woman who was nothing but bones and angles. He liked the feel of flesh in his hands. And of course, there was her glorious golden hair. He wanted nothing more than to bury his face in that mass of silken curls. However, barring that impossibility, he doubted Lady Charity, or any lady born and bred to theTon, would hold his interest for long. Even practiced widows were only a short amusement at best. He had grown to expect little else. Still none had offered the honest discourse that Lady Charity offered. He found her intriguing.
By now, the skinny shop girl had grown bolder, leaning in to him, promising more than the wares in her hands, but she held no interest for him. If the gentlemen had been alone he would have told her directly that she might be more to Reginald’s preference, but of course, he could not make his wishes known in present company.
The heat of the sun had reached its peak and Neville was beginning to wonder how much longer they were to remain at the shop. He was bored, and the shop girl, his station and wealth in mind, was all too interested. Neville was beginning to feel the pressure to disengage as the girl brushed her hand against his several times in obvious invitation. If she became much more bold it would be gauche. It was the light of day, and he obviously was with ladies of theTon.Perhaps she expected him to promise to return tonight, but he made no such promise. He would have told her bluntly to desist if the ladies were not in attendance. As it was, he had to endure and ignore to keep with convention.
Lady Charity suddenly insinuated herself between him and the skinny shop girl, and lay her gloved hand on his arm.
“Oh Lord Wentwell,” her soft voice crooned at his elbow. The very sound of it was like the clear ringing of bells and her eyes were bright, so earnest, that he could not look away. “I saw a seller across the way with a brilliant emerald broach that I cannot forget.” She leaned into him giving all appearance of a lover. Her voice was low and coaxing, her breath hot against his neck. “May we go?” Her fingers tightened on his arm.
Neville looked down into her clear blue eyes. There was a gleam that would go unnoticed by any save himself. A gleam that was there to speak a message just for him. She was all too aware of the shop girl’s attention, and rather than being incensed, her lips quirked in an almost smile. She found humor in his predicament. Still she had appeared just in time to extricate him from the situation, as if an angel from a dream, or was she jealous of his attentions to the shop girl.
He opened his mouth to speak, and she blinked at him, long and slow. Sweet heavens, her lashes were long, and her eyes as blue as the sea. The shop girl was forgotten. There was only this seraph in front of him.
“May we go,” she repeated.
He breathed in the scent of her. “Of course we may.”
Charity giggled lightly, a sound like music. Strange how the sound was not grating on the ears. No. It was a charming sound of real happiness.
The shop girl sized up the lady, and determined that there could be no competition. Wentwell realized there were few that could hope to best one with the combined position and form of Lady Charity Abernathy.
He tipped his hat to the lowly maiden and offered his elbow for Lady Charity Abernathy’s grasp. He placed his hand over her gloved one, inching up to rub a thumb across the skin at her wrist. “Whatever you wish,” he said in a low voice meant to entice her.
“My,” she giggled in a low whisper for his ear alone, “I had expected you to be more skilled at the retreat. You have had the practice.”
Neville’s eyes glanced down upon the coy female. He refused to admit that he required the assistance. Yet, she had come to his aide. Why?
“You might thank me later,” Lady Charity added in a husky voice as she clung to his arm in a moment of sudden clumsiness, forcing him to tighten his hold to keep her upright, the softness of her brushing against him as she stumbled. The sudden and profuse blush that filled her face had him believe that she had not tripped on purpose, and yet she failed to clarify in what manner he might thank her as she offered. A number of very inappropriate ideas flitted through his mind as he breathed in the scent of her perfume. It was the softest hint of lavender. Neville could not help but think that she had meant to imply some sort of clandestine payment was in order. He wondered at the slight upturn of the corner of her mouth, almost a smirk. Her lips were quite pink, as if she had been recently kissed, or wished to be kissed. He dragged his eyes away from her face.
After their removal from the shop, the pair made their way across the lane. Still, there was something in Lady Charity’s manner that made Neville wonder if she understood the effect of her manner. True to form, few ladies could maintain their cool facade in his presence. He had perfected the art of appeal, although she had proclaimed herself immune.
“An emerald broach, you say?” he asked in hope of redirecting the conversation.
Lady Charity released a frustrated sigh.
“I should never choose such a color,” she revealed. “Green is my least favorable color.” She faltered a bit as she looked up at him, and caught his wandering gaze. ”But then,” she continued, haltingly. “It should only diminish the effect of my eyes,” she said finally.
She made the statement with aplomb, as if she had been told the fact a hundred times. She was neither proud, nor boasting. The statement of blunt fact seemed to reveal that her claim had been a ruse, and then she lowered her eyelashes in a coy gesture and he was uncertain. It was as if she had pulled the very earth from beneath his feet.
“I am sure any jewel would look lovely against your fair skin,” he offered as she shyly avoided his gaze, taking special attention to admire a collection of embroidery swaths on display for the commission of crests. It was a bland complement, but a truth. One of the display counterpanes was bright and beautiful, reminding him of thebroderie perse, his mother had bought, imported from India, an elegant and elaborate piece of embroidery for the guest bedrooms’ done on whole cloth quilts. Yes, he thought, Lady Charity could wear nothing but a bit of bed linen and still look fetching. In fact, she would look very appealing clad only in said linens with his own crest embroidered upon it, or perhaps only in emeralds. Heat blistered through him at the thought.
Though her eyes were a deeper blue than the summer sky after a heavy rain, even a green gem could not diminish the effect. She seemed not the type to encourage compliments and so he kept any further comments to himself, save what had already been said.
She offered no response. It was a strange thing, he thought, that a lady would not do what she could to continue his commentary on her person. Most women never tired of complements. Lady Charity seemed bored by the prospect. Had she been a man, Neville thought, they might have been friends, but as a woman they had no recourse to such friendship, at least it was very rare. He knew several men who had befriended women, but those ladies were either one’s own wife or the wife of another. The thought of her as the wife of another shot a spark of anger through his veins. Why he would care if she were another man’s wife? He asked himself. There was no answer.
“I have no interest in a broach,” she admitted. “Nor am I aware that any such bauble even exists.”
“Is your ploy then is to separate me from the crowd,” he teased. “Are you aiming to find yourself alone in my presence? You, my dear lady, play a dangerous game.” Perhaps, he thought there was a quiet corner where he might steal a kiss. The thought was uncommonly exciting as it was broad daylight.
“Lud,” she said, and her lips broke into a smile revealing a slightly crooked tooth. He found it strangely endearing. “I would not stoop to such measures,” she said. “My ploy is to have someone convey my package,” she said placing her boxed and paper-wrapped pearls in his hands.
He grinned at her. “Your package is my pleasure,” he said with a slight bow, and he waited for a blush that did not come. She had already turned away as if his banter meant nothing to her.
Lord Wentwell agreed with her statement that according to convention, she needed accompaniment, but he did enjoy teasing her. He followed in her wake as she perused the market. She gave the appearance of no tolerance to his flirtations, yet neither did she do anything to dissuade his antics. It was as if she might handle his attitude with good humor and yet, somehow, at the same time cease to encourage any further relations. He was unable to gauge how he was affecting her sensibilities.
She looked up and then off into the distance where other wares were set up for sale. “In truth, I too should like to move on from this place, though I am much in need of your services,” she said.