“It’s . . . it’s very healthful, ma’am.”
“Indeed it is! You must take a course of the farina cataplasms! Most restorative! Dr. Wendeburgen assures me that after six more months, my veinous palpitations will be a thing of the past!” Her ladyship described the innumerable benefits to be gained from this popular treatment until Livia was actively queasy and the gorge had begun to rise in her throat. “—and as for bilious extrusions, of which I am sorry to say I have four—or is it five?—in rather indelicate places—oh! Here comes your betrothed, Miss Stuart! I declare he is the most distinguished gentleman in the room!”
Chapter 6
Livia turned to follow Lady Enchwood’s admiring gaze, and for a startled moment the crowded Pump Room faded away and she saw only Gabriel Penhallow. How tall he was. And he was distinguished-looking, there wasn’t any doubt about it. He was impeccably dressed in pale yellow pantaloons and a dark blue coat that fitted his broad shoulders without a crease. His thick, straight brown hair just touched his collar in a very dashing way.
It seemed like years since she had last seen him. Was it possible she’d actually forgotten just how attractive he was, and how he carried himself with an arrogant assurance that made one feel a little weak in the knees?
For the past few weeks he’d become more of an idea to her, something rather abstract, but to see him once again in the flesh—solid, real, intensely masculine—well, that was an entirely different thing, and Livia was shocked to feel a giddy rush of pride that he was hers.
And had to sternly remind herself that she was only playing a game.
A game for her own benefit.
And yet, unbidden, into her mind came a vision of a grand nursery. She hadn’t lived in the country nearly all her life without learning how nurseries were filled: and another fiery blush was promptly suffusing her face. She could have cheerfully kicked herself for her mooning idiocy and for looking like a human beet. The Penhallow nursery would remain empty.
“Good morning, Grandmama,” Mr. Penhallow said, at his coolest and most urbane. He greeted the effusive clutch of elderly ladies gathered round and then turned to Livia, bowing slightly. “My dear Miss Stuart.”
The old ladies fluttered in a way that struck Livia as shameless, and angrily she dipped a little curtsy. “Sir,” she replied, trying hard to match his coolness.
“I trust I find you well?”
“Very well, sir, thank you.”
“How are you enjoying Bath?”
“It is delightful.”
“Indeed. However, the weather looks rather inclement today, I fear.”
“Yes. It’s a bit overcast.” Livia eyed him closely. Was that a mocking glint in those fine brown eyes? Was he testing her? Well then. She would be the perfect young lady or die trying. “I shouldn’t wonder if it will rain.”
“It does so frequently.”
“So I understand. Perhaps,” she went on, “it will be fine tomorrow.”
“Perhaps. Of course, it may rain.”
Oh dear. She was already running out of things to say. Then, a little desperately: “One is grateful for umbrellas.”
“Very grateful. Grandmama, ladies, will you excuse us? Miss Stuart looks a trifle overwarm. No doubt she’ll benefit from a sip of the waters.”
There was an instant chorus of fluttery agreement, and as Mr. Penhallow took her arm and bore her away, Livia felt as if she was being wafted along a wave of sentimental goodwill. “Why, he positively dotes on her,” came a trill from behind her, and Livia resisted the impulse to snatch her arm away.
The Pump Room water tasted like—well, Livia had never drunk from the puddles standing around dankly at Ealdor Abbey for days on end, but if she had, she would guess that it might even be better than the vile stuff in the glass Mr. Penhallow had, with irritating ceremony, handed to her.
She managed to keep from gagging. “Thank you, that is sufficient.”
“Are you certain? Surely you need more.”
“Why?” she asked suspiciously.
“While you are delightfully arrayed and coiffed, Miss Stuart—I extend my felicitations on your newly acquired polish!—I can’t help but observe that you’re noticeably thinner than when last we met. Is town life not agreeing with you?”
His voice was bland, his face—that too dangerously appealing face—unreadable, and altogether there seemed to be such a total lack of real concern in his question that despite her intention to remain just as dispassionate as he was, Livia’s temper flared. She leaned in and said in a choked undervoice:
“Oh, I’m thinner, am I? Well, it’s because your grandmother is starving me to death!”