Caro expelled a harried sigh. “To be honest, even if she were right, it wouldn’t matter. Neither Anna nor I would ever feel compelled to give up our interests just to please a man.”
“Why should you?” murmured Devlin.
A look of surprise flickered in her eyes, only to be chased away by a flash of mirth. “Your ideas on the subject ought not be taken as gospel either, sir. It’s well known you go out of your way to break every rule of propriety.”
“True. That’s because, like you and your sister, I don’t feel compelled to behave according to the strictures of a gaggle of narrow-minded prigs.”
Caro looked uncertain of how to reply.
“And it appears that neither does Lord McClellan,” he added, as they passed through the entrance of the drawing room. The baron stalked in several moments after them and went to stand by himself in the archway of one of the side alcoves. “Though I daresay he’d bristle at the notion of having anything in common with me.”
“You, at least, are entertaining,” said Caro frankly. “While he is an odious, obnoxious oaf.”
“You forgot ‘opinionated.’ It, too, begins with an ‘O.’”
Her chin took on a slightly defiant tilt. It was, noted Devlin with an inward smile, an unconscious imitation of her older sister’s look when she was annoyed.
“You may go ahead and mock me, sir,” said Caro. “But I enjoy the rhythms and sounds of language.”
“I wasn’t mocking you, Miss Caro, I was merely bantering.” He plucked two glasses of champagne from the tray of a passing footman and handed one to her. “Your sister mentioned you had an interest in poetry.”
Caro choked on a swallow of the wine. “Sh-sh-she did?”
“In the library,” he reminded her. “When the two of you were looking for some books of Robert Burns’s verses, as well as the sonnets of Shakespeare.”
“Oh, er, yes.” A laugh, which for some reason sounded a little forced. “That’s right.”
Oddly enough, her blush was back. Though why the mention of verses and sonnets should be making her jumpy as a cat crossing a hot griddle was puzzling.
“There’s nothing overly shocking about a young lady having an interest in poetry,” he pointed out. “So there must be some other reason your face is now the same shade of crimson as Lady de Blois’s gown.”
“The wine,” she stammered. “It must be the champagne. I am a little unused to strong spirits.”
He refrained from smiling. Barely. “Would you prefer ratafia punch?”
“No, no, I shall just…sip it more slowly.”
“Now that we’ve established your interest in poetry, I can’t help but be curious as to what sort of books your sister prefers,” he said, once she had taken a tiny swallow without further ill-effects. “She doesn’t strike me as a truly serious, scholarly bluestocking. I can’t quite picture her working on translating Homer from the original Greek or studying Newton’s laws of motion.”
“True, she’s not overly interested in ancient classics or arcane science. Her tastes run to more modern works.”
“Such as?”
Caro gave a vague wave. “Oh, you know, all the popular novels—the works of Mrs. Radcliffe and Charlotte Smith…that sort of thing.”
“Novels.” Devlin nodded. “Yes, what young lady doesn’t enjoy an entertaining tale?”
And yet, something didn’t feel quite right about the reply, though he couldn’t say why. Perhaps it was because Miss Anna Sloane was not at all like the silly, simpering misses who paraded through the drawing rooms of Mayfair. For the most part, they were colorless pasteboard cut-outs, each one indistinguishable from the others.
Whereas Anna was unique. Interesting. Intriguing. Unpredictable…
Unlike Caro, he did not feel compelled to choose his adjectives for alliteration.
“Indeed, sir,” responded Caro brightly. “We ladies do tend to be passionate about writing. That is to say,” she hastily added, “the written word, and how authors can, if they are talented, transport us to a different world for a certain interlude.”
“Because for ladies the real world is so very limited compared with the world of the imagination?”
She now looked utterly flustered. “I…I…” Caro heaved a sigh of relief. “Oh, look, I see that Anna has finally come down.”