Lady Polly. Nicola Cornick
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have considered reading to be amongst your favoured occupations—” Polly bit her lip, aware that her confusion had prompted her to sound less than civil. “I beg your pardon, I only meant that I imagined you had other interests—” Again she broke off. That sounded even worse!
Lord Henry smiled, showing her the books. “Allow me to astound you then, ma’am! I have here Coleridge’s Biographica Literaria and some Homer, which I have not read since I was in short coats! I assure you, I am far more erudite than you think me!”
Polly blinked, unable to refute the evidence of her eyes. It seemed singular that a man whose self-proclaimed aim in life was enjoyment to the point of dissipation should sit in alone with only his books for company.
“I am so glad to see you restored to health,” Lord Henry continued smoothly. “I was at Lady Routledge’s picnic earlier and your sister-in-law intimated that you had been taken ill after the ball last night. Something you ate—or drank, perhaps?”
Polly could feel herself blushing with vexation. The last thing that she wanted was to be reminded of the previous evening and Lord Henry’s scandalous behaviour.
“I am quite recovered now, I thank you,” she said stiffly. “Good day, sir. I must be on my way home for we are promised for the theatre this evening.”
“Perhaps I may escort you back to Brook Street?” Lord Henry suggested politely.
He held the door for her as she went out into the sunny street. It was tempting to accept his offer, but since Polly was still smarting with mortification over her behaviour the night before, Lord Henry’s continued presence could only be a dangerous reminder. She gave him a smile behind which her regret was imperfectly hidden.
“Thank you, sir, but I think not. I have my maid with me for company and it is not far to home.”
“I am disappointed, ma’am,” Lord Henry said, falling into step beside her as though she had not spoken. “Are we not pledged to a better understanding? How may that be achieved if you refuse my company?”
“Pledged to a better understanding?” Polly stopped and stared up at him. The summer breeze was ruffling his thick fair hair and she stifled a sudden urge to touch it. She realised that she was still staring. Hastily, she started walking again.
“Why, yes.” Somehow Lord Henry had taken her arm without her noticing. It seemed churlish to draw away from him. “We are to be friends, remember? You suggested it last night!”
“Friends!” Polly almost tripped up with shock and his hand tightened momentarily on her arm, sending all sorts of strange but delicious sensations through her body.
“Yes, of course you must remember! We were on the terrace—”
“Yes!” Polly squeaked, convinced he was about to remind her of every searing detail. She took a deep breath. “Of course I remember our conversation, sir. I had the particular impression, however, that you did not care for my suggestion!”
Lord Henry turned to look at her. It was a distinctly speculative look. “You did not find my response to you…friendly?”
Polly blushed with indignation. “I did not, my lord! Presumptuous, outrageous, but scarcely friendly!”
Lord Henry’s shoulders were shaking with suppressed laughter. “Come now, Lady Polly! You are severe! Was my company so repulsive to you?”
Polly was in a dilemma. Modesty required her to lie but she had been brought up to be exceptionally truthful.
“Your behaviour was not that of a gentleman, sir!”
“Ah, true!” Lord Henry smiled whimsically. “But I find myself rather taken by your proposal, Lady Polly. I have an ardent desire to promote our friendship. Our encounter last night whetted my appetite for it!”
They had reached Brook Street, which was fortunate since Polly was utterly unable to think of a suitable response. Lord Henry kissed her hand. “If you wish to be persuaded further of my erudition, perhaps you might wish to join me in St James’s Square? I have an excellent art collection which you might like to view…” His glance was wicked. “Unless you are already convinced of my scholarship and good taste?”
“I will accept your word on it,” Polly said, still trying to be severe though tempted to giggle. “Good day, sir!”
Art collection, indeed! Polly blushed a little as she considered the implications of his teasing invitation. He must consider her a green girl to be caught by that one! Lord Henry grinned and strolled off down the street, with just one provocative look back. Polly was annoyed that he had caught her looking after him.
“There’s a likely gentleman,” Jessie opined, looking over Polly’s shoulder. “Aye, and a dangerous one, too! You be careful, madam!”
Polly, who had been thinking exactly the same thing, turned away with studied indifference. “Oh, nonsense, Jessie! Lord Henry is just a flirt!”
“A flirt!” Jessie was indignant. “A rake, more to the point! Aye, and you like it, madam!”
Polly did not deign to reply.
As she dressed for the theatre that evening, she repressed a little shiver of excitement and apprehension at the possibility of seeing Lord Henry again. It seemed that her behaviour the previous night had, entirely unexpectedly, caught his interest. But his attentions could never be anything other than dishonourable, and as a result of her own actions he was now pursuing her in a wholly improper way.
The play that night was the farce The Devil to Pay, and the company was a merry one. Nicholas and Lucille Seagrave, the Dowager Countess and Polly, made up a party with Sir Godfrey Orbison and his cousins the Dacres. There was a vast number of their acquaintance at Drury Lane that night and the Dowager Countess spent an entertaining time leaning over the side of their box and identifying members of the fashionable crowd. When she saw Lucille’s twin sister Susanna Bolt on the arm of a distinguished-looking gentleman of military bearing, she dug Lady Dacre in the ribs.
“Do look, Marianne! There is the Duke of Garston making a fool of himself over the Cyprian! Only see how she preens and pouts! Lord, what is it about these worthy gentlemen that makes them such easy meat for her?”
Fortunately, Lucille was engrossed in conversation with Nicholas and Lord Dacre and did not hear, but Polly leant forward curiously. Susanna Bolt was looking very striking again, she thought, in her bold and flaunting style. There were jewels glittering in her hair and her mouth was a deep, curving red as she smiled triumphantly over her conquest. The sapphire blue eyes which appraised the crowd were the exact shade of Lucille’s but there the resemblance finished, for the Countess of Seagrave had such a sweetness of character and bearing that it softened every feature that Susanna’s avarice had turned hard.
Polly sighed, just a little envious of Susanna’s bold beauty. She knew that her own looks were pleasant enough, although she had never been considered an Incomparable. The Seagrave colouring of chestnut hair and dark brown eyes flecked with gold seemed to suit her brothers better, although her creamy complexion was much admired. And her figure was trim rather than voluptuous, which the gentlemen seemed to prefer. Polly wondered idly whether Susanna’s appearance on Garston’s arm indicated that her brief interest in Peter was over or whether she was just being naïve to imagine the Cyprian confining herself to one man at a time.
“Polly!” the Dowager Countess said sharply, as a young buck raised his quizzing glass to ogle her daughter. “Kindly sit back! You do not wish to attract the attention of the hoi polloi!”
Polly’s heart skipped a beat and she sat back slowly, for she had just seen Lord Henry Marchnight in a box across from them. He was in a lively group with Simon Verey, his wife Therese and some of their friends, all laughing animatedly at a remark Lady Verey had just made. Polly felt a quiver of envy and repressed it quickly. It was not that she was bored with her own party, for she always enjoyed Lucille’s company and