scarce paid attention to anything else. Now he looked around. Georgiana had indeed acquired a new attendant, a small slender creature clad in a pale yellow gown that didn’t suit her bright gold hair. The girl was staring at a luster of glass and ormolu that resembled a shower of diamonds, the bauble probably costing between two and three thousand pounds. The expression on her face put Ned in mind of soldiers in the midst of battle, shocked immobile by carnage and cannon fire.
“She’s newly come to town,” explained Georgiana. “Miss Julie Wynne from York. We have notified Bow Street that Mildred has vanished into thin air.” The girl started, blinked, stared down at her gloves.
Hannah and Georgiana resumed hostilities, and Ned made his way to Miss Wynne’s side. “A dreadful crush, is it not?” he said.
“I suppose.” She spoke so softly that he barely caught her words.
Was the girl shy? Ned studied her bent head, which afforded him only a glimpse of the straight line of her nose and the plumpness of her lips and the rosy color rising in her cheeks. His eyes drifted lower to the bosom of her gown. Clea, who had taken to poring over fashion magazines by the hour, would have called the dress a ‘Corset frock’, the bodice lacing across the front like a corset, the sleeves short and full.
Damned if Miss Wynne didn’t seem familiar. Ned couldn’t think why. A man wouldn’t soon forget those bright willful curls. They looked as if they’d been repressed with a stern hand and were merely waiting for a moment’s inattention so they could burst free.
She said, “You are staring at me, my lord.”
“So I am. My apologies. I was struck mute with admiration for your curls.”
She shot him a sideways glance, so quick he hadn’t time to note the color of her eyes. “Gammon,” she said.
Gammon? Ned’s mood further improved. “Not one for idle conversation, are you, Miss Wynne?”
She flushed but refused to look at him. “Like you say, I have no conversation. I don’t mean to be rude.”
Ned thought she meant to be precisely that. Had she dared, the chit would have shoo’d him away. It was a novel experience. Most females wanted him to stay.
“Dorset!” Hannah beckoned. Ned excused himself. The dowager was no doubt wondering why he was talking to a mere companion, such creatures being — in the opinion of the Hannahs and Georgianas of the world — far beneath the notice of a gentleman as exalted as himself.
The encounter with her archrival had but briefly distracted Hannah. She drew Ned’s attention to the next eligible on her list, this one a trifle bran-faced, granted, but it didn’t signify, for she was a biddable female and wouldn’t cause a moment’s unease. Alternately, the dowager suggested an acknowledged beauty prone to temper, but she doubted Ned would like that.
Would he not? Temper sprang from passion, and Ned liked passion well. An alliance with a temperamental beauty would be infinitely preferable to marriage with a good biddable female.
What was he thinking? Infinitely preferable would be no marriage at all. The earl required an heir, however, and to the devil with the wishes of mere Ned. Perversely, he imagined the next young lady without her clothes.
Without her clothes?
Ned abandoned Hannah in mid-sentence, and shouldered his way through the crowd. He found Lady Georgiana admiring one of Prinny’s earlier efforts, a Chinese room with walls of painted glass that gave the visitor a disconcerting impression of being trapped inside a lantern. Trailing after her, laden down with vinaigrette and hartshorn and now a Grecian shawl, the rooms having grown too warm for even the languid Lady Georgiana, was Miss Wynne.
As if she felt his attention on her, the girl glanced directly at him. Vivid blue eyes locked with green.
Chapter Six
If Jupiter hurled his thunderbolts as often as man sinned, he would soon be out of thunderbolts. — Ovid
The Strand
“She’s newly come to town,” explained Georgiana. “Miss Julie Wynne from York. We have notified Bow Street that Mildred has vanished into thin air.” The girl started, blinked, stared down at her gloves.
Hannah and Georgiana resumed hostilities, and Ned made his way to Miss Wynne’s side. “A dreadful crush, is it not?” he said.
“I suppose.” She spoke so softly that he barely caught her words.
Was the girl shy? Ned studied her bent head, which afforded him only a glimpse of the straight line of her nose and the plumpness of her lips and the rosy color rising in her cheeks. His eyes drifted lower to the bosom of her gown. Clea, who had taken to poring over fashion magazines by the hour, would have called the dress a ‘Corset frock’, the bodice lacing across the front like a corset, the sleeves short and full.
Damned if Miss Wynne didn’t seem familiar. Ned couldn’t think why. A man wouldn’t soon forget those bright willful curls. They looked as if they’d been repressed with a stern hand and were merely waiting for a moment’s inattention so they could burst free.
She said, “You are staring at me, my lord.”
“So I am. My apologies. I was struck mute with admiration for your curls.”
She shot him a sideways glance, so quick he hadn’t time to note the color of her eyes. “Gammon,” she said.
Gammon? Ned’s mood further improved. “Not one for idle conversation, are you, Miss Wynne?”
She flushed but refused to look at him. “Like you say, I have no conversation. I don’t mean to be rude.”
Ned thought she meant to be precisely that. Had she dared, the chit would have shoo’d him away. It was a novel experience. Most females wanted him to stay.
“Dorset!” Hannah beckoned. Ned excused himself. The dowager was no doubt wondering why he was talking to a mere companion, such creatures being — in the opinion of the Hannahs and Georgianas of the world — far beneath the notice of a gentleman as exalted as himself.
The encounter with her archrival had but briefly distracted Hannah. She drew Ned’s attention to the next eligible on her list, this one a trifle bran-faced, granted, but it didn’t signify, for she was a biddable female and wouldn’t cause a moment’s unease. Alternately, the dowager suggested an acknowledged beauty prone to temper, but she doubted Ned would like that.
Would he not? Temper sprang from passion, and Ned liked passion well. An alliance with a temperamental beauty would be infinitely preferable to marriage with a good biddable female.
What was he thinking? Infinitely preferable would be no marriage at all. The earl required an heir, however, and to the devil with the wishes of mere Ned. Perversely, he imagined the next young lady without her clothes.
Without her clothes?
Ned abandoned Hannah in mid-sentence, and shouldered his way through the crowd. He found Lady Georgiana admiring one of Prinny’s earlier efforts, a Chinese room with walls of painted glass that gave the visitor a disconcerting impression of being trapped inside a lantern. Trailing after her, laden down with vinaigrette and hartshorn and now a Grecian shawl, the rooms having grown too warm for even the languid Lady Georgiana, was Miss Wynne.
As if she felt his attention on her, the girl glanced directly at him. Vivid blue eyes locked with green.
Chapter Six
If Jupiter hurled his thunderbolts as often as man sinned, he would soon be out of thunderbolts. — Ovid
The Strand
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