honored, Lady Enid,” he said with his most irresistible charm. He raised her hand and kissed the air over it, smiling up at her over her fingers. He’d never met a woman who didn’t melt at that.
Until now, with the woman he was supposed to marry. Instead Lady Enid remained stone-faced, her fingers tense in his hand, as if she were barely able to refrain from jerking them free.
“Why don’t you walk about with Lady Enid, Sheffield?” Brecon said, choosing to ignore the lady’s unhappiness. “Surely there are things you’d wish to say to each other without us listening. That is, if Lord and Lady Lattimore can be persuaded to part with their lovely daughter.”
“Of course, sir, of course!” Lord Lattimore exclaimed, patting his waistcoat-covered belly. “Whatever His Grace desires!”
With an endorsement like that, Sheffield had no choice but to lead Lady Enid away, holding her hand as gingerly as he could. In silence they made their way through the crowded room toward the tall windows that lined one wall. The spring evening and the crush combined to make the room so warm that the windows had been thrown open to the balcony, and guests strolled freely back and forth. Moonlight spilled over Lady Fortescue’s gardens, down to her private river gate and the star-dappled Thames beyond. Sheffield considered taking Lady Enid outside with the hope of the moonlight thawing her humor.
“It’s a lovely evening on the river, isn’t it, Lady Enid?” he said. “Would you care to step outside to view it?”
She glared at him. “Docti viri es?” she demanded. “ Graece et Latine dicis?”
“Eh?” Sheffield frowned. He recognized that she was addressing him in Latin, but beyond that he was lost, his days of classical study at university a shaky memory at best. “ Docti what?”
“I asked Your Grace if you were a learned gentleman,” she said, unable to keep the triumph from her voice. “I asked if you read Latin and Greek.”
His frown deepened. “Why? And why ask me in that ancient mumbo-jumbo?”
“Quia nunquam a dominus qui non nubunt,” she answered in the same mumbo-jumbo, then helpfully translated. “I could never marry a gentleman who couldn’t. Read Greek and Latin, I mean. Clearly you cannot, sir, and therefore I cannot marry you. I will not marry you.”
“I can speak, read, eat, and sleep in both French and Italian, Lady Enid,” he said, unable to keep irritation from creeping into his voice. He could do a good many other things in those languages, too, not that this grim bluestocking would ever wish to experience them. “Do those account for nothing by your reckoning?”
“No, sir,” she said firmly. “French and Italian are frivolous modern tongues, without rigor or tradition.”
Sheffield’s smile had become a grimace. Blast Brecon for getting him into this, and blast His Majesty, too. He cleared his throat, blatantly buying more time to think.
“Lady Enid,” he said finally. “Lady Enid, there seems, ah, to be a certain misunderstanding here.”
“No misunderstanding, sir. None.” Her face had become so red that Sheffield feared she’d burst into tears. “I understand everything, sir. Despite what Father says, I am a lady of virtue and honor, and I could never resign my happiness to a gentleman who—who is a wastrel and a rake, and who cannot read one word of Latin!”
“Where the dev—that is, who told you that?” he demanded, taken aback. “Your father?”
“Not Father, no,” she admitted. “But everyone else speaks of it. From the servants clear to His Majesty. Everyone knows you live for scandal and intrigue and—and low, faithless women.”
“For a lady who considers herself so virtuous, you’re remarkably well informed.” Swiftly he steered her through the nearest door out onto the gallery, not for the romantic moonlight but for the privacy that this peculiar discussion required.
“Where are we going, sir?” she asked, flustered and trying to
Until now, with the woman he was supposed to marry. Instead Lady Enid remained stone-faced, her fingers tense in his hand, as if she were barely able to refrain from jerking them free.
“Why don’t you walk about with Lady Enid, Sheffield?” Brecon said, choosing to ignore the lady’s unhappiness. “Surely there are things you’d wish to say to each other without us listening. That is, if Lord and Lady Lattimore can be persuaded to part with their lovely daughter.”
“Of course, sir, of course!” Lord Lattimore exclaimed, patting his waistcoat-covered belly. “Whatever His Grace desires!”
With an endorsement like that, Sheffield had no choice but to lead Lady Enid away, holding her hand as gingerly as he could. In silence they made their way through the crowded room toward the tall windows that lined one wall. The spring evening and the crush combined to make the room so warm that the windows had been thrown open to the balcony, and guests strolled freely back and forth. Moonlight spilled over Lady Fortescue’s gardens, down to her private river gate and the star-dappled Thames beyond. Sheffield considered taking Lady Enid outside with the hope of the moonlight thawing her humor.
“It’s a lovely evening on the river, isn’t it, Lady Enid?” he said. “Would you care to step outside to view it?”
She glared at him. “Docti viri es?” she demanded. “ Graece et Latine dicis?”
“Eh?” Sheffield frowned. He recognized that she was addressing him in Latin, but beyond that he was lost, his days of classical study at university a shaky memory at best. “ Docti what?”
“I asked Your Grace if you were a learned gentleman,” she said, unable to keep the triumph from her voice. “I asked if you read Latin and Greek.”
His frown deepened. “Why? And why ask me in that ancient mumbo-jumbo?”
“Quia nunquam a dominus qui non nubunt,” she answered in the same mumbo-jumbo, then helpfully translated. “I could never marry a gentleman who couldn’t. Read Greek and Latin, I mean. Clearly you cannot, sir, and therefore I cannot marry you. I will not marry you.”
“I can speak, read, eat, and sleep in both French and Italian, Lady Enid,” he said, unable to keep irritation from creeping into his voice. He could do a good many other things in those languages, too, not that this grim bluestocking would ever wish to experience them. “Do those account for nothing by your reckoning?”
“No, sir,” she said firmly. “French and Italian are frivolous modern tongues, without rigor or tradition.”
Sheffield’s smile had become a grimace. Blast Brecon for getting him into this, and blast His Majesty, too. He cleared his throat, blatantly buying more time to think.
“Lady Enid,” he said finally. “Lady Enid, there seems, ah, to be a certain misunderstanding here.”
“No misunderstanding, sir. None.” Her face had become so red that Sheffield feared she’d burst into tears. “I understand everything, sir. Despite what Father says, I am a lady of virtue and honor, and I could never resign my happiness to a gentleman who—who is a wastrel and a rake, and who cannot read one word of Latin!”
“Where the dev—that is, who told you that?” he demanded, taken aback. “Your father?”
“Not Father, no,” she admitted. “But everyone else speaks of it. From the servants clear to His Majesty. Everyone knows you live for scandal and intrigue and—and low, faithless women.”
“For a lady who considers herself so virtuous, you’re remarkably well informed.” Swiftly he steered her through the nearest door out onto the gallery, not for the romantic moonlight but for the privacy that this peculiar discussion required.
“Where are we going, sir?” she asked, flustered and trying to
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