Fran Baker by Miss Roseand the Rakehell Page A

And Miss Helen’s hair is superbly lovely.”
    Maret shrugged. “I do not find her to be so witless, but I dare say looking at it from a husbandly point of view makes one more critical.”
    He moved away before Stratford could respond, leaving the viscount looking after his receding form with a thoughtful frown. He was unable to reflect deeply upon his friend’s sudden acerbity, however, because he was immediately snared by his aunt, Lady Minerva Baldwin.
    “Stratford!” she screeched. “I have been desiring to speak with you for days. Did you not receive the note I sent round to Half Moon Street asking for you to wait upon me?”
    He turned a resigned, indifferent gaze upon her rounded features, focusing on her multiple chins. “I’m sorry, Aunt Minnie, I was unable to get away.”
    She did not believe this for a moment and told him so bluntly. “But the fact is, Colin, I wonder what you are up to, trying so hard to fix your interest with that little beauty, for you’ve certainly never lost your heart. If you have a heart to lose—which I have doubted for years—you’ve kept it intact, for a man less in love I have yet to see!”
    Stratford gnashed his teeth at this, but knew the impossibility of trying to stem one of her lectures in midflow. He did not listen as she continued, but wondered where she found a dresser who would allow her out of the house with that repulsive puce turban wrapped around her head.
    She regained his attention by rapping smartly on his wrist with her closed fan. “You will doubtless think me an interfering busybody—”
    “Will I?” he inquired politely.
    “But whatever game you are playing, I advise you to quit before the stakes become too deep.” With that Lady Minerva trotted away, satisfied that she had set her nephew onto the right path.
    Stratford stared unseeing after her, then pivoted on his heel and went directly to where Miss Lawrence had just been seated, her face still delightfully aflush from the exertions of the dance.
    “Miss Helen, I wish to speak privately with you,” he started, his tone abrupt.
    “N-now?” she stammered, her eyes flying to meet his.
    “If you please,” he said, extending his hand.
    She hesitated briefly, then placed her own slim hand in his and rose. As they moved together across the room, she knew this was the moment that had been expected all week and steeled herself to make an affirmative reply. She had looked in vain for some sign of affection from Mr. Maret, but had finally been forced to accept that his kindness to her stemmed solely from his friendship with the viscount.
    If she had to sacrifice herself for the good of the family, Helen would by far rather do so with the fair Mr. Maret or even, she thought sadly, with someone like the ridiculous Baron Greer, whose wealth and eccentric pranks made him a regular feature in the on dits about town. But they were not about to offer for her as, she suspected with a sinking heart, Viscount Stratford was.
    His lordship stopped before a curtained alcove and stepped aside for her to pass through. He pulled the curtain closed when he entered, then turned his dark gaze upon her.
    “Miss Lawrence—Helen, you must know what I wish to ask,” he began in a brusque manner.
    She tried to speak, but found she could not. She merely inclined her head, which, had she but known it, tried his lordship’s tin supply of patience to the utmost. He covered this by possessing himself of her trembling hand and, bending his head, lightly brushing his lips across it.
    “I desire to make you my wife,” he said as he straightened, “and if you will honor me with an acceptance, I will apply to your brother for formal permission to address you. Our future, my dear, is yours to command.”
    He had retained his hold upon her and she sat staring mutely at the two hands entwined before she finally raised her blue eyes to his square face. “I am certain you will find Griffen happy to receive you,” she said so