You May Kiss the Bride(102)
“Well, you certainly needn’t stand on ceremony with me.” Livia saw a book on the floor near Hugo’s sofa and came forward to pick it up. “The History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire. Are you enjoying it?”
“Very interesting and all that, but I can’t lie around all day reading. That nice little woman—what was her name? Miss Catt?—she walks so softly she might as well be a cat, a nice, quiet, gray little kitty.”
“Miss Cott.”
“Yes, yes, that’s it. At any rate, she thought I’d find it of interest—as a soldier. Very kind of her. She frightens me half to death, I must say.”
Livia laughed. “She frightens you? You’re twice her size.”
“Yes, but she’s brainy, you see.”
“And you are not?”
“Oh, I’m not stupid, and I daresay I’m clever enough in my own way. But I’d rather be up and about, you know—too restless to keep my nose stuck in a book. At school I was the despair of the masters. Despised sitting still. Simply couldn’t do it. Sporting-mad, and always one for a lark.”
“You’ve been used to leading a very active life,” said Livia, sympathetically. “It must not suit you to be confined as you are.”
“Just so. Bored to death, if you must know.”
“When does Dr. Fotherham say you might get up?”
“I’ve been asking him so often he’ll probably bleed me just to shut me up. But he promises that if I stay quite still, I can leave this blasted sofa in a few days.”
“That’s not so long, is it?”
“It seems like a long time when you have nothing to do.” He smiled winningly at her. “I say, won’t you stay and talk with me? Do sit down. Unless you’re frightfully busy, in which case I wouldn’t dream of imposing on you.”
“I’m not busy.”
“Splendid! Everyone else seems to be. Yes, sit there. The sun makes your hair seem as if it’s on fire.”
“Is that a compliment?”
“Oh, damn, I’ve put my foot in again, haven’t I? But I’ve already told you I’m an uncouth ass. Yes indeed, you’ve got awfully lovely hair. Never seen anything quite like it. And you’re nice, too! My cousin’s a fortunate man. Oh, splendid, here’s somebody with tea. Mary, isn’t it? See here, Mary, that all looks very good—yes, you can put it on that table, there’s a good girl—but I don’t suppose you could have Cook rustle up some cold meat? And if there happen to be any of those fish patties left over from last night’s dinner, I’ll take three or four, with a little of that excellent sauce. And a mug of ale, too, while you’re about it.”
“Oh, yes, sir,” breathed an obviously dazzled Mary, “right away, sir,” but it was to be seen that she lingered for a few moments, plumping a chair cushion with her eyes fixed straitly on Hugo, before leaving the saloon.
“You have an admirer,” said Livia, twinkling at him.
Hugo grimaced. “A damned—dashed nuisance it is, too.”
“Well, you are handsome. You quite remind me of—”
“Don’t say it!” he groaned.
“Say what?”
“That I remind you of a Greek god.”
“Why, how did you know I was going to say that?”
He groaned again. “Everyone does. The bane of my existence, I assure you.”
“Don’t you like being good-looking?”
“I detest being stared at,” he growled. “One feels so conspicuous, like a wild beast on display.”
“You are a modest fellow!”
“I’m sure you are stared at. You’re a beauty, you know.”
“Hardly. Red hair isn’t the least bit fashionable, and slender ladies are all the mode.”
“Pooh! Men don’t want sticks in bed with them!” he said scornfully, then looked so abashed that Livia had to laugh. “Begging your pardon,” he added, meekly.
“Like a proper lady, I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that, Mr. Penhallow. Or—ought I to call you by your military title?”
“Well, you can if you like, but I think you ought to call me Hugo, for since I can’t be making up to you, we’re to be the best of friends, and cousins, too.”
“Very well then—Hugo. May I offer you a cup of tea, or are you holding out for better things?”
“I’m putting my faith in Mary, and that excellent cook of yours. I must say, I’m frightfully glad you’re not one of those haughty, proud Society ladies. Although I’m afraid I must learn to cultivate them.”