Regency Bride: Hattie Wilkinson Meets Her Match / An Ideal Husband?. Michelle Styles
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a hole in the borders. She is hardly bigger than a cat.’
‘Yes, Moth is mine. She is a papillon.’
‘A trained killer, rather than a butterfly.’ Sir Christopher bent down and tickled Moth under the chin. Moth lifted her chin a notch higher before rolling over and exposing her belly. Moth gave a little whimper of pleasure as Sir Christopher obligingly stroked her belly.
Hattie belatedly realised she was staring and turned towards a stand of deep-blue delphiniums. ‘An unexpected pleasure.’
‘My godson was anxious to call on Miss Parteger, but my true purpose involves you.’
‘Me?’
‘The return of your gloves.’
Hattie winced. The gloves. How had she forgotten he had retained them until the blasted forfeit was over? ‘Where are they?’
‘Your sister has taken possession. She expressed surprise that you were so careless with her birthday gift.’
‘It was good of you to return them.’ Hattie kept her gaze carefully on the gravel path, rather than meeting his intense grey eyes. ‘I’m sure my sister will hand them to me. She is very trustworthy in that regard.’
‘I assumed they were precious to you. You were very concerned when you mislaid them earlier in the evening.’
‘That had a different purpose, as you rapidly guessed.’
‘I know, but you neglected to finish your forfeit and collect your gloves. What does this say about you?’
Hattie winced, knowing she’d been the one to make the mistake and leave the dance floor so abruptly. She’d been foolish to give in to her anger and to forget that he held the gloves hostage last evening. It wasn’t his fault that she’d once believed a night’s romance at a ball would last for ever. All Sir Christopher had required was light conversation during the dance and a polite goodbye, something seven years ago she’d have done without considering the consequences. Instead she had behaved like the worst maiden aunt, storming off as if he had attempted to make love to her on the dance floor. ‘The dance was over.’
‘We shall have to examine another forfeit for leaving me bereft on the dance floor.’
‘Have you spoken with your godson about his behaviour?’ she said more tartly than she intended as she tried to banish the sudden image of Sir Christopher kissing her. She would not be agreeing to any sort of renewed forfeit.
‘Rupert now understands the necessity of behaving properly if he desires to further his acquaintance with your niece. Your niece is very adept at the use of her fan. He had considered that she was older.’
A cold shiver went down Hattie’s spine. She could just imagine. She knew all about Livvy’s fascination with fan language for flirtation purposes. She’d warned Stephanie about it weeks ago. Obviously nothing had been done. The problem was how to discuss Livvy’s use of the fan without revealing where she had been. ‘Livvy is impetuous, but innocent. It was a game to her, to see if she could. Nothing more.’
His shadowy grey eyes locked on to hers. ‘And was it a game for you, bursting in on them? Attempting to find evidence of a flirtatious game gone too far? Or is any flirtation too far for you?’
‘My niece’s reputation is paramount.’ Hattie hugged her arms about her waist and tried to control the shiver. ‘And anyway, why are you wandering about the grounds on your own?’
‘Your sister is playing the chaperon while I attempt to find the cedar of Lebanon. As Rupert has decided he wants to do more than play infantile fan games with your niece, he needs to make a favourable impression on your sister.’
‘Have you found the tree?’ she asked brightly.
‘I was on my way when your dog discovered me.’ He checked his fob watch. ‘A quarter of an hour to make a good impression is all Rupert requires.’
‘You need to find the tree before your time is up. Truth in all things.’
‘We reach complete understanding at last, Mrs Wilkinson.’ A smile tugged at his features. ‘It is part of my creed.’
Hattie shook her head. His charm was lethal. She was certain most women discounted his words and only focused on the seductive warmth in his voice. Listening to him, it was easy to understand why he enjoyed such a reputation with ladies. But she knew the trick—the words, not the tone, were important.
‘You’re going in the wrong direction,’ she called as he started going towards the boating lake.
‘Am I? How remiss of me.’ A dimple shone in his cheek. ‘Perhaps you will be kind enough to show me the proper way, Mrs Wilkinson? Getting hopelessly lost could ruin the entire matter. Consider it a fair exchange for leaving me on the dance floor.’
‘When you put it that way, how can I refuse? Find the tree and all obligation will end.’
‘Something like that,’ Sir Christopher murmured.
Hattie placed her gloved hand on his arm. Every inch of her being hummed with awareness of him and the tantalising sandalwood scent he used. A pleasant conversation would not harm anyone, particularly as she remained in control. Mrs Reynaud was right. It was about time she started living, rather than hiding behind her widowhood.
‘We should take the left-hand fork here,’ he said.
She glanced at him under her lashes. His entire being radiated smugness. ‘You engineered this walk! You know precisely where the tree is. Stephanie gave you directions.’
‘Walks are more pleasant if there are two people, even if one of them has tendencies to be sharp-tongued.’
‘I’m not. What is the point of having a mind if I can’t speak it?’
‘Never apologise. Women fall over themselves to falsely compliment me. You make a change.’
‘Why were you in the card room?’ she asked to keep her mind away from the potential rocky subject of comparing her to other women. ‘You hardly seem to be the shy and retiring type. Were you waiting for a lady to appear? One of those who fall over at your compliments? Surely you can confess all to a sharp-tongued widow like me.’
He stopped abruptly in front of a spreading oak. All humour vanished from his countenance. ‘You continue to do me a disservice, Mrs Wilkinson. I only ever pursue one lady at a time.’
The butterflies started beating inside her. One lady at a time. He had sought her out after the dance when he could have sent the gloves.
The news made her blood fizz and tingle.
She removed her hand from his arm and took a gulp of life-giving air. She was not going to start to believe in the illusion of romance again. Charles Wilkinson had for ever cured her of that. Sir Christopher had an ulterior motive, but he would be disappointed. She would show him that at least one woman would not tumble into his bed with the merest crook of his finger or a seductive laugh. Two could play this game. He would learn a lesson.
‘Is that the only explanation I will get?’ She forced her voice to sound playful. You’ll trap more flies with honey than vinegar, she reminded herself.
‘You require more?’
‘The mystery intrigues me. Did you see the fan play between Mr Hook and my niece and know where the proposed liaison would happen?’
‘I was not playing an errant knight. Alas.’ Kit stopped and stared out into the garden with its low hum of bees and faint birdsong rather than at the soberly dressed woman who stood next to him. The scene contrasted so much with the thick mud and scent of gunpowder that had filled his nostrils a year ago. The feeling of being truly alive washed over him again.
The circumstances, rather than the company. Kit forced the brief panic down his throat. After his mother’s departure when he was four and his later experience in Brighton, he’d