Colin grimaced.
Gillian laughed once again. He danced like a dream, flawlessly executing the intricate steps with aplomb. Yet he clearly pretended to despise it. “I vow that you’re a fraud, Lord Grantham. If you’ve no fondness for dancing, why have you come to Lady Harralson’s?”
Colin never missed a step. “I received invitations to Almack’s, Lady Compton’s, and here.” He shrugged his shoulders. “This seemed the best choice.” He had learned long ago that his best course of action was always to tell as much of the truth as possible whenever possible.
Unfortunately, his partner didn’t believe him. “Better than Lady Compton’s?” She feigned shock. “Now, I know you’re a fraud. Or the most virtuous gentleman in all of London.”
He arched an eyebrow in query, eloquently encouraging her to elaborate.
“I’ve yet to meet a man who would rather dance than gamble or pass up the best evening repast in town,” Gillian continued.
Colin grinned. “You appear to be most fortunate in your acquaintances, Miss Davies.”
“Indeed?” She arched her brow and did her best to mimic his expression and his tone of voice.
“Indeed,” he confirmed. “For an evening at Lady Compton’s is generally expensive, and my purse is not so fat that I would risk losing it on games of hazard against men with greater resources than I am able to muster. I only wager with friends who have always generously offered me the opportunity to recoup my losses.”
“Wise as well as gallant,” Gillian murmured, as the dance brought them face-to-face and palm-to-palm.
“Prudent,” he protested, fighting a sudden, aching need to feel her lips against his. “Not necessarily wise.”
The look on his face was mesmerizing. Gillian focused her gaze on his mouth, astonished to find herself wondering how it would feel pressed against her bare flesh. “One would guess that a gallant and prudent man is a rare, if not extinct breed. I doubt that there are many other men who would make that claim.”
He frowned at her unflattering assessment of English gentlemen. “Of course there are,” he assured her. “I’ve no doubt that there are a great many men like me—all equally prudent and gallant.” Colin thought of his Free Fellows League brethren and legions of brave soldiers who had died in the battles against Bonaparte.
“You believe in honor and nobility and chivalry and—”
“You don’t?” he guessed.
Gillian smiled a sad smile. “When one reads Sir Thomas Malory and the writings of Queen Eleanor, one is tempted to believe every man possesses such virtues or aspires to possess them—” She broke off when she recognized the look of wonder on Colin’s face. “What is it, my lord?”
“You surprise me,” he answered.
“In what way?”
“By engaging in philosophical discussion of Malory and the poetry of Eleanor of Aquitaine.” He met her gaze. “I expected...”
“More?” she asked.
“Less,” he said.
“Oh, well...” She blushed. “Sorry to disappoint you, Lord Grantham, but I am a learned woman and as such, I am quite capable of forming and expressing intelligent opinions—”
“Who said I was disappointed?” The light in his green eyes burned hotter.
“Aren’t you?”
“Not at all.”
She blushed even redder, glanced down at her feet, and resumed the threads of their abandoned discussion. “I believe in the ideals of honor, nobility, and chivalry. I just don’t believe they exist in pure, incorruptible form.”
“You can be assured that they do,” Colin said softly.
“It would be nice to think so,” Gillian mused, curtsying once again as the music faded away and the dance came to an end. “But—”
“But someone hurt you—” Colin interrupted.
“But I gave up believing in chivalry and fairy tales long ago. My experience has led me to conclude that you are unique among your peers. No one else could possibly be the sort of gentleman you appear to be.”