Miss Bennett simply smiled—a serene image of loveliness—though he suspected her reply would prove entertaining. “I did not say he prefers sitting alone. On the contrary, Montague Forsyth does not queue on the streets of Mayfair like a herd at a gate waiting to gain admission. He hosts his own select parties and receives many distinguished guests.”
Excitement fluttered in Hugo’s chest. Perhaps it stemmed from the sense of pleasure he gained from seeing Miss Harper struggle against her formidable foe. Perhaps he fancied himself a tiny bit in love with any woman who could command a conversation so eloquently.
“Distinguished guests whose names you have no doubt forgotten.” Miss Harper’s bitter counter made her look ridiculous and petty.
“Yes.” Miss Bennett pursed her lips in contemplation. “You might be right.”
Rather than ring with defeat, Miss Bennett’s reply defused any hostility. If anything, her honest response drew attention to Miss Harper’s spitefulness. Still, the latter had poison for blood, and the pernicious substance looked for any means to attack and denigrate.
“But you’re not a Forsyth,” Miss Harper clarified. “Bennett is a relatively common name.”
Miss Bennett laughed. “Common, yes, but that is the last word I would use to describe the gentleman whose name I bear. He was the most spirited, most inspiring person I have ever known.”
Love radiated from Miss Bennett. It glowed in her wide brown eyes, stirring envy in his chest. Any man would be lucky to be the subject of such esteem and admiration, which reinforced Hugo’s determination not to marry a lady of his mother’s choosing.
“A landowner?” Miss Harper persisted with her questions.
“An excellent painter and a hopeless romantic. Most famous for his works detailing notable places on the Grand Tour. His particular fondness for Italy is evident in his catalogue of works.”
Hugo snapped his head back. “Not Phineas Bennett?”
“Indeed.” Miss Bennett’s beaming smile played havoc with Hugo’s insides. “Did you know him?”
“I had the pleasure of meeting him o
nce in Florence. He was painting a picture of the Basilica di San Lorenzo and explained most passionately why he thought it an architectural masterpiece.”
“Yes, that painting hangs in my grandfather’s study. The Bargello courtyard is a favourite of mine, though I believe Lord Gray owns it now.” She clutched her hands to her breast. “My father was granted a special dispensation to paint there. One can hardly believe such a beautiful place is used to house prisoners. Surely it must affect the rates of reform.”
While Miss Harper glared with her snake eyes, and Flanders looked on in wonder as the angel spread her wings, Hugo felt something he had never experienced before. Interest. Interest in a woman for more than her curvaceous body—interest in her mind.
Hell’s teeth!
“It must have been some time ago, my lord.” Miss Bennett’s captivating smile faded. “Both my parents perished in a boating accident off the coast of Italy eight years ago.”
Hugo inclined his head. “Please accept my condolences.”
During his tour, he’d been a young man of twenty with a feverish enthusiasm for adventure. Now, the weight of responsibility hung like a heavy chain around his neck. The duty to marry and sire an heir would add a few more links to his burden.
“My parents were very much in love, my lord. I take comfort knowing they’re together.”
“Ah, love, the elusive emotion that evades the best of men.”
“Indeed.”
The sadness in her eyes caused inner turmoil. The urge to see her smile again overpowered all other thoughts and feelings. So much so, he hardly noticed Miss Harper slithering away to join the other ladies on the sofa. Hardly cared that Flanders stood drooling on the Persian rug.
“Perhaps you might like to accompany me on the ride out to your carriage, Miss Bennett.” The words left his lips before his brain engaged. Why the hell would she? The bitter wind bit the cheeks. Three steps from the door and one would struggle to feel their toes. “The air in here can be somewhat cloying, and we’ve more than an hour until the dinner gong.”
No other woman of his acquaintance would accept. Most worried about their complexions, their new boots, the damp conditions ruining their hair. An hour was not long enough to preen themselves to perfection. Hope sprung to life in his chest. The daughter of such an eminent man as Phineas Bennett must surely be different.
Miss Bennett’s curious brown eyes studied him. “Is it wise to take the horses out in this weather?”
“Spurius is my preferred mount. Does that answer your question?”
“Spurius? As in the name once popular throughout the Roman Republic?”
Hmm. Her level of intelligence proved most impressive. “In Latin, does it not mean champion?”