you can,” he said. “The ruse will benefit us both, at least until I can think of a respectable way for us to part.”
How exactly he’d manage that would be a puzzle. Thanks to Brecon’s influence, he really was a rake with a conscience, an uneasy combination if ever there was one. He was perfectly happy to pretend that he and Lady Enid were betrothed if it gave him a respite from other matchmaking schemes, and in fact he’d like to see her wed to her educated tutor, parsing Latin together forever and ever. If he didn’t want to marry without love, then he saw no reason she must do so, either, no matter what her father dictated. Besides, Sheffield rather enjoyed the notion of playing Cupid for such an unlikely couple, especially if it meant he would be free.
Clearly Lady Enid was thinking, too. “I’ll send word to Joshua to let him know the truth,” she said, “so he may stop worrying about me.”
“You remain in contact with him, despite your father’s wishes?” Sheffield asked, surprised. “You know where he resides?”
“I do, sir,” she said, the determined chin returning. “I will remain ever faithful in my love. He is here in London, serving as tutor to a thick-headed merchant’s son in Cornhill, the only position he could obtain because of Father.”
“Why, Lady Enid,” Sheffield said, liking her better after this declaration. “That sounds as if you’re conducting a bit of intrigue yourself.”
“I would do anything for Dr. Pullings, sir,” she said vehemently. “ Anything . And thus I will pretend to be betrothed to you, sir.”
“Even that?” Sheffield asked, amused but also touched by her devotion. It wasn’t that he longed for her particular devotion—he didn’t—but when he considered all the ladies in his own past, he wasn’t sure any of them had been quite so loyal as this.
“Even that, sir,” she said firmly, and slipped her hand into his arm. “Shall we share our happiness with my parents?”
They walked back into the house, squeezing their way past the guests who’d gathered to watch the dancers. Sheffield glanced at them, too, his gaze irresistibly drawn to the sight of graceful women dancing. But one in particular caught his eye, a girl with golden hair and a gown of cream-colored damask with pink flowers, and this time he didn’t need Fantôme to find her.
“What is it, sir?” Lady Enid said. “You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Not quite,” he said, chagrined that she’d noticed. “But do you know that lady dancing in the white gown, the one with the fair hair?”
Lady Enid looked at the lady, then stared at him, incredulous. “You truly don’t recognize her?”
“I wouldn’t ask if I did,” he said. “Remember, I’ve been abroad, and a good many fair new faces have appeared in London since I left. Including your own, Lady Enid.”
She laughed. “An excellent recovery, sir,” she said. “But you should know the lady in white, for she’s practically part of your own family. She’s Lady Diana Wylder, and her older sisters are Lady Marchbourne and Lady Hawkesworth.”
“ That’s Lady Diana Wylder?” he asked, stunned that London could be such a small place. How could it be that Fantôme’s lady in the wood was the same lady Brecon had mentioned as being a trial to her mother?
“It is, sir,” Lady Enid answered, laughing again at his astonishment. “But I wonder that you do not know her for her history alone, for truly you must both be cut from the same scandalous cloth. Her name has been linked with several of the most unfortunate men, from a ne’er-do-well Irish officer to a Covent Garden actor. She’s said to be quite … impulsive .”
“I’d no notion,” he murmured, watching the girl with renewed interest. No, not merely renewed: doubled, or even tripled. He’d already been intrigued by her beauty and her laughter (and her breasts—he’d an undeniable male interest in those), as well as the mysterious
How exactly he’d manage that would be a puzzle. Thanks to Brecon’s influence, he really was a rake with a conscience, an uneasy combination if ever there was one. He was perfectly happy to pretend that he and Lady Enid were betrothed if it gave him a respite from other matchmaking schemes, and in fact he’d like to see her wed to her educated tutor, parsing Latin together forever and ever. If he didn’t want to marry without love, then he saw no reason she must do so, either, no matter what her father dictated. Besides, Sheffield rather enjoyed the notion of playing Cupid for such an unlikely couple, especially if it meant he would be free.
Clearly Lady Enid was thinking, too. “I’ll send word to Joshua to let him know the truth,” she said, “so he may stop worrying about me.”
“You remain in contact with him, despite your father’s wishes?” Sheffield asked, surprised. “You know where he resides?”
“I do, sir,” she said, the determined chin returning. “I will remain ever faithful in my love. He is here in London, serving as tutor to a thick-headed merchant’s son in Cornhill, the only position he could obtain because of Father.”
“Why, Lady Enid,” Sheffield said, liking her better after this declaration. “That sounds as if you’re conducting a bit of intrigue yourself.”
“I would do anything for Dr. Pullings, sir,” she said vehemently. “ Anything . And thus I will pretend to be betrothed to you, sir.”
“Even that?” Sheffield asked, amused but also touched by her devotion. It wasn’t that he longed for her particular devotion—he didn’t—but when he considered all the ladies in his own past, he wasn’t sure any of them had been quite so loyal as this.
“Even that, sir,” she said firmly, and slipped her hand into his arm. “Shall we share our happiness with my parents?”
They walked back into the house, squeezing their way past the guests who’d gathered to watch the dancers. Sheffield glanced at them, too, his gaze irresistibly drawn to the sight of graceful women dancing. But one in particular caught his eye, a girl with golden hair and a gown of cream-colored damask with pink flowers, and this time he didn’t need Fantôme to find her.
“What is it, sir?” Lady Enid said. “You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Not quite,” he said, chagrined that she’d noticed. “But do you know that lady dancing in the white gown, the one with the fair hair?”
Lady Enid looked at the lady, then stared at him, incredulous. “You truly don’t recognize her?”
“I wouldn’t ask if I did,” he said. “Remember, I’ve been abroad, and a good many fair new faces have appeared in London since I left. Including your own, Lady Enid.”
She laughed. “An excellent recovery, sir,” she said. “But you should know the lady in white, for she’s practically part of your own family. She’s Lady Diana Wylder, and her older sisters are Lady Marchbourne and Lady Hawkesworth.”
“ That’s Lady Diana Wylder?” he asked, stunned that London could be such a small place. How could it be that Fantôme’s lady in the wood was the same lady Brecon had mentioned as being a trial to her mother?
“It is, sir,” Lady Enid answered, laughing again at his astonishment. “But I wonder that you do not know her for her history alone, for truly you must both be cut from the same scandalous cloth. Her name has been linked with several of the most unfortunate men, from a ne’er-do-well Irish officer to a Covent Garden actor. She’s said to be quite … impulsive .”
“I’d no notion,” he murmured, watching the girl with renewed interest. No, not merely renewed: doubled, or even tripled. He’d already been intrigued by her beauty and her laughter (and her breasts—he’d an undeniable male interest in those), as well as the mysterious
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