“I
noticed she attracts male admiration.”
“Well, of course she is lovely,” Jenny said, smiling at him. “But it is not just her beauty that recommends her. She is very accomplished.”
“And what of you, Miss Alt? You have no callers, Cassandra tells me. I find that strange, a woman like yourself finding no one to suit. Is it you are not interested in marriage?”
She glanced away. “It is not that.”
“Ah.”>
“What does that mean—‘ah?’ There is nothing to ‘ah’ about.” Her jaw worked, and he saw she was struggling to remain calm. “Cassandra is very funny. She is a delightful conversationalist. Do you not agree?”
“I do agree.” He leaned forward. “But let us not forget the subject of why you have spurned men’s attentions.”
She swallowed, then gave him her most mutinous look. “Have you not heard, my lord, that I am a bluestocking? You have heard Cassandra say it. Men do not care for my type.”
“The devil they don’t. So, then, Miss Alt, you mean to tell me that you do not mind being left behind, if only just a little bit?”
It was like watching a storm gather. Her face twitched, that finely wrought nose curled at the nostrils, and her eyes, nearly hidden behind her spectacles, grew narrow.
“Not every woman is bent on capturing a man. I am quite content.”
“And brave, to lead a life of independence. Tell me something, then, if you are as brave as you claim. Why do you wear those eyeglasses? Your cousin tells me you only require them in order to read. Certainly you do not rely on them to attend Sunday services.”
Touching her fingers to the hinges of her glasses self-consciously, she tried to shrug off his question. “I . . . I like my spectacles.”
His lips curled into a dangerous smile. “I think it is because you are hiding.”
“That is a preposterous thing to say!”
“Is it? Take them off. I want to get a good look at your eyes.”
She pressed back into the squabs, horrified, as if he’d suggested she disrobe. The wayward thought plunged his heart into his stomach, and he realized the idea of Jenny Alt undressed aroused him.
“My lord,” she said, cutting out each word with a hard edge, “I have grown used to being dismissed, considered unimportant, and, yes, even odd. But your ridicule is not to be borne.”
He felt a moment’s hesitation. She seemed dangerously close to tears. If he could see her eyes . . .
He folded his arms in front of him. “Tell me, Jenny, how long have you lived with your aunt?”
“What concern is that of yours? What relevance could it possibly have—?”
“Answer my question, please.”
The understated air of command annoyed her, but she couldn’t see a way to refuse to tell him. “I came to live with Aunt Iris eight years ago.”
“And you were how old at the time?”
She paused before admitting, “Fourteen.”
“At the very cusp of womanhood. Cassandra is younger, isn’t she? A few years, I think. Four or five? She’s very pretty. Was she a pretty child?”
“Yes, of course. She was always very pretty.”
“If I were the poor relation—please pardon the term, but I use it only to make a point—I would hardly want to tempt jealousy, not with Cassandra. As the uncontested beauty of the family, she enjoys being the center of attention. Thrives on it, needs it. Am I correct? If I were a homeless cousin, dependent on the family for a home, I might not want to appear to be too much competition, if you understand what I am saying. And you do understand, don’t you?”
She stared at him, not moving a muscle. He slipped closer, trying to read what was in her face.