“I’m idealistic about love, my lady, not marriage. To be tied to one lady for the rest of my life, surrounded by small, grubby urchins?” He shuddered in mock horror. “No, I shall gladly cede the matrimonial state and all its attendant duties to my brother.”
“And if you do one day find yourself in love?” she asked softly. “What then, my lord?”
“Why, then, all shall be lost, my lady. A rake’s life crumbled to ruins, a splendid specimen of the bachelor state brought low by the bonds of matrimony and a delicate hand. But”—he lifted an admonishing finger—“that is, as you yourself have pointed out, very, very unlikely. My one true love may be a lady living in farthest China. She might be a crone of ninety or a babe of two. I may never meet her in this lifetime, and I thank God in advance for that fact.”
He’d teased a slight smile onto those soft lips, and his heart beat faster at the sight. A smile—a genuine smile—from this woman was like total nudity from another. And what a very odd thought that was.
“Why, my lord?”
“Because”—he bent so close that his breath moved a wayward red curl by her ear—“while I may be far from perfect in your eyes, I do assure you that my life is perfect as it is. I enjoy my rakish ways, my freedom, and my ability to, er, dally with as many ladies as I might want. For me, true love would be a complete and utter catastrophe.”
HERO STARED UP into Reading’s roguish light green eyes. He’d used a euphemism instead of the crudity he’d employed in the sitting room, but his words were no less shocking because of that.
She swallowed, imagining a legion of ladies sprawled across his bed, his well-muscled buttocks thrusting in that mesmerizingly rhythmic movement. Dear Lord, she should be offended at the vision, but instead she wanted to press her palms to her cheeks to cool the heat rising there. She watched as Reading’s eyelids drooped and his wide mouth opened to say something that would no doubt scandalize her even more.
Fortunately, they were interrupted.
“Might I have my fiancée back?” Mandeville said in a voice that was a little too hard-edged to be jovial.
The teasing gleam left Reading’s eyes, taking with it any softness in his face. What remained was an expressionless and rather daunting mask. Without his habitual humor, Reading might have been the type of man others followed into near-hopeless battle: a leader of men, a statesman, a visionary.
What a very odd thought to have about an admitted rake!
Hero blinked and realized that Mandeville was offering his arm. “My dear?”
She smiled, dropping a curtsy for Reading before taking her fiancé’s arm.
Reading swept into a bow so extravagant it verged on mocking. “My congratulations to you, Thomas, on your engagement. Lady Hero.”
He nodded rather more curtly to her and then turned to disappear into the crowd.
Hero let out a breath she did not know she was holding.
“I hope he wasn’t too trying,” Mandeville murmured as he led her toward the dance floor.
“Not at all,” she said, nodding to a passing matron.
She felt more than saw his sharp look. “Some ladies find him very enticing.” His tone was so neutral it might as well have been a warning shout.
“I’m sure they do,” she said gently. “The hint of danger and that wicked grin no doubt have many a feminine breast aflutter. But I’ve always found a man who knows his responsibilities and keeps them far more attractive than one who spends his life playing.”
The arm beneath her hand relaxed fractionally. “Thank you, my dear.”
“For what?”
“For seeing so clearly what others do not,” he said. “Now, would you care to dance with your betrothed?”
She smiled up at him, liking how the lines about his brown eyes crinkled when he looked at her. “I’d be delighted.”
They danced a minuet and a country dance, and then Hero professed herself in need of refreshment. Mandeville led her to several chairs arranged by the side of the room and found her a seat before going in search of punch.
Hero watched him thread his way through the crowd, admiring his wide shoulders and firm stride. As always, he was stopped every few feet by well-wishers and those who merely wanted to be seen talking to the Marquess of Mandeville. She sighed, content. Really, Maximus had made the perfect choice of husband for her.
“There you are!”
Bathilda Picklewood—or, as she was better known in the Batten household, Cousin Bathilda—settled her substantial frame into a chair next to Hero. A distant relation on her mother’s side, Cousin Bathilda had raised Hero and her younger sister, Phoebe, ever since the death of their parents. Cousin Bathilda’s white hair was crimped into tiny curls about her forehead and was topped by a lacy triangular cap. She wore her favorite plum color, and her magnificent bosom was framed by white lace and black ribbons. From the crook of her arm peered a small black, brown, and white face. Mignon, Cousin Bathilda’s tiny, elderly spaniel, accompanied her wherever she went.