Hero, Come Back (Cynster 9.50)
He smiled, genuinely, with warmth and sincerity a degree beyond all he’d ever felt before. “I wondered if you’d care to stroll…?”
Her features softened, lips lifting in a fleeting but still nervous smile. “Thank you. That would be pleasant.”
He handed her down; with a nod to Lady Calverton and a promise to return Anne in half an hour, he set her hand on his sleeve and turned her toward the lawn.
He felt her quiver—just for an instant—then her head rose. “Actually”—her voice quavered; she cast him a swift glance, then looked along the row of carriages lining the drive—“I was hoping to see if Imogen was here.”
That fleeting glimpse of wide brown eyes was enough to warn him—while she recognized that what had passed between them the previous evening required something be said, it was not a subject she felt at all confident of broaching in their present surrounds.
He debated for only an instant before reining in his impatience. “I assumed as much.”
His disapproval rang in his tone; Anne was simply glad he was agreeable to being distracted.
“You absolutely cannot speak to Imogen on this matter.”
She glanced at him, her nervousness rapidly retreating. “I wasn’t going to say anything about Benjy! I just thought that if she was here, I could simply pass the time—we have been introduced—and just”—she gestured—“see if she knew.”
Most men would have frowned and asked how; Reggie frowned, but the acceptance in his eyes, the reluctant twist to his lips, said he understood.
She pressed her advantage. “If she knows, she’ll be concerned and distracted—it’ll show.”
“Very well.” Inwardly grim, Reggie glanced along the row of carriages. “Let’s see if we can find her.”
They strolled along the verge, stopping here and there as ladies called greetings. He would have infinitely preferred putting a greater distance between himself and the fond mamas, but if Imogen were there and they wished to approach under the guise of mere socializing, they had to set the stage.
Despite her shyness, Anne determindedly did her part; only he could tell how much she steeled herself, how her fingers tightened on his arm when they approached groups of people she only distantly knew. He watched, supported her, ready to step in and deflect any comment likely to fluster her—and grudgingly approved, felt reluctant appreciation of her courage and commitment to Benjy’s cause.
Unfortunately, news of his great-uncle’s health had started to circulate through the ton; some ladies pressed him for news, others made arch comments on his pending title.
Anne looked at him, confusion in her eyes; she hadn’t heard the rumors. He grasped a moment as they strolled between carriages to explain.
“Oh.” She blinked. “I see.”
The sudden withdrawal he sensed in her had him inwardly swearing.
“No. You don’t.” He heard the words, clipped and precise, and met her startled glance. Felt his features harden. “But I can’t explain here.”
He looked along the carriages. Inwardly scowled. “I don’t think Imogen’s here.”
“She usually is—that suggests some more important matter has claimed her attention.”
Rising confidence infused Anne’s voice; he bit back the observation that there was no reason Hugh would necessarily tell his wife about Benjy. Arguing over the confidences shared between husband and wife did not seem wise, given their present state.
He wanted to speak about that, about them, about the future, but no opportunity arose. The park was not the place for such a discussion, especially as his socially attuned antennae reported that, alerted by the news, the matrons and grandes dames were watching them strolling together, the ease between them, the lack of social constraint, very apparent. Their relative age set them apart, excused them, but also focused more eyes upon them.
He steered her back toward the Calverton carriage, determined to engineer a suitably private meeting. There was no reason for equivocation, not between them. “I assume you intend monitoring the Caverlocks’ reactions, at least as far as they allow them to show.”
She nodded, determination lighting her face. “They’ll be attending Lady Hammond’s soirée this evening.”
He might as well be hange
d for a wolf as for a lamb. “If your mother’s agreeable, I’ll escort you there.”
She halted; gaze direct, she met his eyes. He didn’t try to conceal any of what he felt, neither the aggravation at the wasted day, nor his intention.
Her eyes searched his, then she smiled, tightened her fingers briefly on his sleeve, and turned toward the carriage. “I’m sure Mama will be delighted to accept your escort.”
That much of his plan went well—when applied to, Minerva was indeed willing to have him escort them that evening. Her dark eyes met his, but she merely smiled and refrained from comment, much to his relief.