A Summer to Remember by Mary Balogh

even though her dark, glossy hair was dressed with a great deal more simplicity today.
    She showed not the slightest pleasure in the implied compliment.
    “Do have a seat, my lord,” she said with gracious condescension—a stranger would surely have mistaken
her
for the duchess. She turned and indicated an empty chair in the midst of the crowd of young people among whom she had been sitting. “I shall fetch you a cup of tea.”
    When she took her place again, he noticed that she sat very straight, her spine not quite touching the back of her chair. She launched into conversation about music, and a spirited discussion of various composers and the relative merits of different solo musical instruments followed.
    Kit did not attempt to participate but amused himself by observing the other members of the group. His appearance had obviously discomposed several of them. The red-haired Lady Wilma Fawcitt was looking prunish, Sutton haughty, Attingsborough watchful and faintly amused. The skeletal young man whose name had escaped Kit for the moment was looking irritated, George Stennson openly hostile. Miss Edgeworth seemed the only one who was serenely unaware of his very existence. Kit sipped his tea.
    “Miss Edgeworth,” he said at last, taking advantage of a brief lull in the conversation, “would you allow me the honor of driving you to the park in my curricle later this afternoon?”
    He was gazing directly at her and so was fully aware of the momentary widening of her lovely eyes and parting of her lips. The next moment she was looking coolly back at him, her expression politely bland. He was sure she was about to refuse him. Perhaps he had proceeded too precipitously. How would he win his wager if she said no?
    “Oh, I say,” the skeletal, still unidentified young man said indignantly, “I came to ask the same favor, Miss Edgeworth, but thought to do the correct thing and wait until I could speak privately with you when I took my leave. I was here before Viscount Ravensberg,” he added feebly.
    Kit raised his eyebrows. “I do beg your pardon,” he said. “Did I do the
incorrect
thing? Having spent so many years of my adult life away from England, I must confess myself unsure of the finer points of etiquette.” With his eyes he laughed at Lauren Edgeworth.
    “Oh, I say!” The anonymous gentleman sounded distinctly uncomfortable. “I did not mean to imply—”
    “I believe,” Attingsborough said smoothly, “it might have been for this afternoon that you and I made our appointment to drive to the library together, Lauren. You will refresh my memory if I am wrong.”
    “Sutton has quite set his heart on taking you and me for a turn in his new barouche after tea, Lauren,” Lady Wilma said with a toss of her red curls. She tittered. “I am quite counting on you to act as my chaperone.”
    Kit continued to smile into Lauren Edgeworth’s violet eyes, which had not wavered from his own. There was not the faintest suggestion of an answering smile there.
    She looked away. “No, you are wrong, Joseph,” she said. “It was not for today. And you certainly do not need a chaperone when riding in an open carriage with your betrothed, Wilma. Perhaps some other day, Mr. Bartlett-Howe? Thank you, Lord Ravensberg. That would be very pleasant.”
    He had the other members of the group to thank, of course, Kit realized as he rose to take his leave. He was quite certain she had been going to refuse him until they had all rushed in so gallantly to rescue her from the horror of being obliged to drive out with a notorious rakehell. She might be cold and imperturbably self-contained, his intended bride, but she was not immune to a challenge.
    It was an intriguing thought.
    “Until later, then, Miss Edgeworth,” he said, bowing to her, nodding affably to the group at large, and then strolling across the room to take his leave of the Duchess of Portfrey.
    He grinned as he ran down the steps outside the house a few minutes