“Ah,” she observed, “you are a solitary person.”
He paused, his eyes glowing that strange shade of green. “At times. I do have friends, however, and I enjoy them very much.”
“The demimonde,” Jenny said, then regretted her indiscretion.
He only smiled wryly. “Are you a snob, Miss Alt?”
“No, of course not, I simply meant that . . .” Oh dear.
“I admit I have enjoyed the company of some who might be considered . . . unconventional. But they are very diverting. Interesting, even fascinating.”
Jenny realized this was probably true. One of the chief reasons she was considered such an outsider to the most elite circles was because she found them boring.
“But no one fit to marry,” he clarified.
“That is why you are here, after all. To bring a companion home.”
“A companion?” His face darkened, the lightness in his eyes extinguished in a blink. “I am here to find a wife. Appalling, isn’t it, what a man is reduced to?” His face turned a bit sour, and he lapsed into silence, his fingers going to a small rip in the leather arm of his chair. “You hit the mark, Miss Alt, comparing my present duty to purchasing a horse at Tattersall’s.”
Once before, he had offered a glimpse of his reticence. She longed to ask him about it but did not dare.
She remembered what Aunt Iris had said about his wife. A disastrous marriage. What had made it so? Did he love her very much? Is that why this was so difficult, because he missed her?
The thought tugged at her sympathy. “You do not have to be humiliated,” she rushed. “I mean, men of your class of course seek to make a marriage in the ton.”
He gave her a strange look. “Yes. There is a reason for that. A woman of the right breeding knows more what to expect. I am hoping it is safer.” He sighed. “Such morose conversation. I am to blame. Or perhaps it is the weather. It has gotten the worst of me, perhaps. Rain in the country is refreshing. One knows the fields and gardens are being nourished. Here it only makes for muddy streets and slick cobbles and puddles to soak one’s shoes.”
She fell silent, chastising herself for her boldness. Aunt Iris was always cautioning her about being too forward. It simply was not in her nature to mince words.
She reflected on his mood. He certainly had been affected by her bringing up the topic of his marriage.
“You are suddenly quiet,” he observed. “Last evening, at dinner, you did not have much to say. Today you declined to accompany us. I find myself wondering, Miss Alt, if you have some dislike of me.”
The comment startled her out of her thoughts. “Dislike? Indeed, not. I do not know you at all, my Lord Hatherleigh.”
He stretched out his long legs toward the fire. “I thought I made it clear that I prefer my name, my actual name, not my title, to formalities. My name is Miles.”
Jenny looked away. “But that would be improper, my lord.”
“Why? Are we not related?”
“Only through marriage, and even that is a far connection. I am afraid our relation is not a close enough for convention, as you must already know.”
“But we are just the two of us here right now. Surely no one will know.”
It was an outrageous thing to say, invoking a feeling of intimacy. The two of them, the cozy fire, the flames reflected in his eyes like tiny imps dancing with mirth.
Yes, he was teasing her, and suddenly she realized what a mistake she had made. She shouldn’t be alone with any man, of course, but him . . .
“I fear I should not entertain your vanity,” she said.
“Do not be afraid, Miss Alt,” he cooed with a mocking smile.
“I am afraid, indeed, my lord, of impertinent earls who mistake cruelty for high hilarity.”
He was taken aback, unable to speak for a moment before he said, “You think me cruel?”
“You are making sport of me.”