“Oh, I don’t think we need to wait.” Miss Chester shifted closer still and laid a hand on his sleeve. “Why,” she cooed, “I’m sure we can find something of interest to pass the time, away from all these others.” She caught his gaze—rigidly unresponsive—and all but batted her lashes. “I’ve heard the gardens are extensive. I’m sure we can find some quiet path along which to wander . . .”
He honestly couldn’t recall ever being so blatantly propositioned in his life. “I daresay.” Enough was enough. “However—” He bit the word off, along with the rest of what was possibly a too-strongly worded rejection, and sent an entirely instinctive, helpless look Henrietta’s way.
She was looking and caught it. Then her gaze dropped to Miss Chester’s hand, lightly gripping his sleeve . . .
Henrietta noted in that part of her brain that had grown obsessed with James and his reactions that he’d stiffened, holding rigid against Miss Chester’s entreaty, but it wasn’t simply protectiveness that surged through her and had her turning to Mrs. Julian and Mrs. Entwhistle and saying, “Indeed, it’s all quite fascinating, but sadly, Mr. Glossup and I must be on our way.” An appropriately social smile curving her lips, she met Mrs. Julian’s eyes, saw the flash of irritation therein, and evenly stated, “We have other engagements in town and should start back. If you’ll excuse us?”
James promptly got to his feet, helped her to hers, and joined with her in making their farewells. As she turned from the three ladies—leaving two, at least, metaphorically gnashing their teeth—he offered his arm.
She took it. As they strolled away from the trio, he whispered sotto voce, “Are we really leaving?”
The hope in his tone was impossible to miss. Smothering a laugh, she replied, “Of course,” and waved him toward their hostess.
Lady Jersey wasn’t the least surprised to learn they had some other engagement. “Why, of course, my dears—you must be in such demand.”
Duly taking their leave, Henrietta directed James down a secondary path. As he led her out of the clearing, she glanced up at him. “You really didn’t enjoy this, did you?”
He grimaced. “The thing with being a wolf of the ton, you see, is that we avoid all such affairs when we’re younger, so now I’m . . . well, you might say ‘constitutionally unsuited’ to such entertainments. I’m all the time thinking that I’d much rather be somewhere else.”
She snorted. “Knowing Simon, I can believe that.”
Looking down, she wondered if that was it—she was Simon’s sister, after all. Was that why James had been so protective at Marchmain House? Was that why he’d held her hand all the way home—purely to comfort her? It had been a comfort, but . . . she’d thought it might have meant more, but perhaps that was just wishful, necklace-induced thinking.
The jewelry in question lay about her throat; she could feel the warmth that seemed to emanate from the beads and pendant. Strangely, she only ever noticed that when James was about.
Yet it was she who was wearing the necklace, not him; there was no reason to imagine it would have any effect on him. No reason to suppose he was thinking of her in any light other than as Simon’s sister, The Matchbreaker, who had broken up the match he’d arranged, and then, once she’d learned of his noble reasons for seeking a bride, had offered to help him find a suitable lady.
“Aah . . . do you know where we’re going?” James glanced around, but the path they’d been following had led them into a long walk bordered by thickly growing laurel hedges taller than him. They could see down the walk, or look back to where they’d turned into it, but he couldn’t see beyond in any other direction.
Henrietta glanced around as if only just noticing where they were. “This is a secondary route back to the house. If we just keep going, we’ll reach there soon enough.”
James wondered . . . “Secondary . . . so the others won’t be coming up on our heels?”
“Probably not. The mamas and matrons will opt for the shorter way, taking most of the young ladies, which means most of the gentlemen will take that path, too.”
So they were, for the moment, more or less alone. Out of sight of anyone. James drew in a breath. “Henrietta?”
“Mmm?”
He halted, and when she halted, too, and, drawing her hand from his sleeve, turned to face him, he . . . knew what he wanted to ask, but his courage a
bruptly deserted him. He’d been searching all day for some sign of her true view of him; when she’d leapt so decisively to his aid over Miss Chester, he’d thought—hoped that perhaps . . .
Moistening his lips, his eyes on hers, he heard himself say, “I was wondering . . . about kisses.”
She stared at him. “Kisses?”
“Yes.” He pointed at himself. “Wolf of the ton, remember?” He’d had no idea his past would prove so useful.
She frowned. “I don’t understand.”
“Well, you see, there are kisses, and”—he lowered his voice—“kisses. I was wondering, with young ladies, what was acceptable? What degree, so to speak.”
The look on her face told him more clearly than words that she had no clue how to answer him.
Which was exactly as he’d hoped. “Perhaps,” he suggested, and prayed she’d swallow the line, “I could demonstrate. So you could see the difference between what I imagine a ‘young lady’ kiss might be, as distinct from a ‘seducing an experienced matron’ kiss.”
Naturally, she looked suspicious, but he’d expected that. He sighed. “Yes, I know it’s a bit much to ask, but you did offer to help me, and how else am I supposed to find out? If I get it wrong, I might shock some young lady out of her stays.”