In fact, she’d pretended it only a minute ago, but now did not seem the opportune time to remind her. “Right,” he said. “Well done. And why should you?”
The question was rhetorical, but she took it seriously. “Lady Milton and Lady Anne want me to do it. They’re both hypocrites, you know. They care nothing for those orphans. Lady Milton isn’t even joining the excursion—why go to Ramsgate when one can holiday in Nice!” She crossed her arms and rolled her shoulders, as though to physically shed such thoughts of duplicity. “Hypocrites,” she repeated. “I care for the orphans.”
Oh ho, a quarrel. No doubt it involved a great lot of silk-clad women with diamonds in their ears, arguing about who cared more for poor little Oliver—pausing only to allow the footman to refresh their champagne. “Naturally, you care.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You don’t believe me? Perhaps I’ll open my own orphanage. And I will feed them something more than gruel, you may count on it!”
The shrill note in her voice dimmed his amusement. All right, the lack of tears and screams had thrown him off, but clearly she was hysterical. On consideration, it seemed typical that Gwen would permit herself to exhibit only the mildest, most pleasant symptoms of the malady. “Beef every night,” he agreed. “Why not? You’ve certainly got the funds for it.”
A line appeared between her brows. “Don’t humor me.”
“Did I ever?” The idea surprised him. “If so, it was only by accident. No need to pile on to that effort.”
She hesitated, then gave him a smile. “That’s true. You’ve never gone out of your way to be nice.”
He smiled back at her; for all that she was babbling nonsense, hysteria looked charming on her. “Open the orphanage,” he said. “You can do anything you like. Your options were not limited by today’s events.”
“Oh?” She came marching down the steps, hand extended. “Then I will ask you to return my property.”
He glanced at the envelope. The Right Honble. The Viscount Pennington. “Oh, good God. What—”
She lunged for it, and he caught her wrist. Her pulse thrummed like the drum in some wild jungle dance. Hot skin, soft beneath his thumb. “That’s mine,” she said. He hadn’t imagined her brown eyes could be put to a glare, but they looked nothing doe-like to him now. She gave a futile yank against his grip. “Let go of me!”
“Writing to Pennington,” he said. The sound of his own words focused him. He opened his fingers, shedding the feel of her. “What in God’s name is this?” Her optimism went too far if she hoped that bastard would change his mind.
Her jaw squared. “That is not your concern.”
He did not recall the irksome discovery of a backbone being one of hysteria’s symptoms. “I made a promise to your brother,” he reminded her. Alas, alas, for deathbed promises. “I’m afraid it’s very much my concern.”
Mention of Richard seemed to throw her. She hesitated. “All right, then. It’s a list of reasons I hate him.”
“I’ll have the truth,” he said flatly.
“That is the truth!” Her finger caught up a loose strand of hair, twining it around her knuckle. Biting her lip and peering up at him, she looked like a very good approximation of a barroom flirt.
A more annoying development he could not imagine. He relied on her to look prim and untouchable. “Leave your hair alone,” he snapped.
Her hand dropped. She gave him a marveling look. “You’re quite beastly, you know.”
“You’re only now realizing this? I would have assumed the gossips might inform you. Failing them, Belinda.”
“Yes, but . . .” Her eyes narrowed. “Alex,” she said. “Belinda tells me all the time how much you loathe when Lord Weston tries to bully you. Why should you do the same to me? Let me have my letter.”
He laughed, surprised by this devious turn. “Oh, that’s well done, Gwen. Yes, it’s true, of all the roles I might play, the bully is not my favorite. But when you’re determined to play the idiot—”
“I am not playing the idiot!” She grabbed again for the letter.
He stepped backward, holding the envelope above her reach. “It doesn’t matter anyway,” he said. “Pennington’s run off. He’s not here to receive your notes.”
The news visibly stunned her. Mouth agape, she retreated a pace toward the stairs. “Run off?” she whispered.
“Train to Dover, bound for the Continent. I’m sorry,” he added. “He’s a piece of filth.”