Chapter Seventeen
Astonished Lady Asquith had requested his party join hers, Adrian headed across the lawn with Emily walking slightly ahead and Caroline by his side. His plan was working. And quickly, too. Unfortunately, with an unanticipated effect.
An effect demonstrated in a dream Adrian recalled from the prior night.
He and Miss Wainwright were back in the box at the opera—alone.
He’d taken her hand in an innocent handshake, but then she’d drawn close, and he’d cupped the back of her long neck, tilted her head and brushed her lips with his.
Her skin had been warm with wanting, her lips soft and pliant.
When he withdrew, Miss Wainwright had transformed into the Blackbird.
How did he know, having never seen the woman?
Because she, too, had grabbed his shirt and demanded more.
In that dream moment, they’d been magically transported back to the Lyon’s Den, where he’d obliged, savoring the encore of every unspeakable act.
How was he going to look the Miss Wainwright in the eye?
“Odd, don’t you think?” Caroline spoke in low tones so that they would not be overheard.
“Lady Asquith issuing us an invitation to join her party? Not unusual at all. Lady Asquith is merely being polite. Emily invited the Wainwright girls to join her lessons, she’s simply returning the favor.”
Caroline hummed thoughtfully. “In my experience, Lady Asquith rarely does anything without calculation. Not, you understand, in a malicious way. But in the way of kindly older women. You must have made a good impression.”
“Me?” With eyebrows raised, Adrian pointed to himself.
“I took calls this morning. More than one person gleefully reported that you were seen shaking hands with one of the Wainwright twins.”
He flattened the hand already over his heart. “Quelle horror.”
“Adrian, be serious. What are you up to? Miss Wainwright is young, impressionable, and innocent.”
Hearing the echo of his own thoughts, he frowned. “Do you think I would harm her?”
“Of course not. But—”
“Trust me,” he interrupted. “Miss Wainwright is more than capable of giving a set down, should one be required.”
Caroline’s brows drew together.
“Oh, don’t look at me that way. She only agreed to spend time with me.”
“You asked her to spend time with you?”
“I am well aware of Lady Asquith’s influence. All I intend, at present, is to ensure that the countess develops a positive opinion of Emily.”
Why had he added the ‘at present’? “Miss Wainwright agreed to help, thus the handshake,” he quickly continued, hoping Caroline wouldn’t notice the slip.
“Adrian, you can’t mean to court her just to get into Lady Asquith’s good graces.”
“And why not? How could there be any harm? We both know exactly what the other expects.”
Caroline did not look convinced. “Please take care.”
“I always do.” He caught his hands behind his back, ignoring the toll her warning had rung.
By the time he and Caroline had reached the blanket, the two youngest Miss Wainwrights had rejoined the three eldest. Greetings and introductions were exchanged, and a second chair produced for Caroline.
Then Millicent, Annette, and Lenora, accompanied by an eager Emily, returned to the edge of the lake to entertain an amassing group of children.
He leaned against the tree, content to surreptitiously scrutinize Miss Wainwright as the ladies conversed. Why had his imagination confused the young lady with the Blackbird?
They were similar in that they both had engaged his wit. And, like the Blackbird, Miss Wainwright had been intelligent and engaging. The Blackbird had sparked a potent desire specific to her person. Distressingly, Adrian also found Miss Wainwright uniquely desirable.
Miss Wainwright was the opposite of demure. She was headstrong and sure of what she wanted. If her lovemaking proved as passionate as her conversation, a man would never grow weary of her intimacies.
“Lord Redver, have you nothing to add?” Lady Asquith asked him.
His head snapped to Lady Asquith. He stared blankly. Last time he’d been aware, Miss Cassandra, Caroline, and Lady Asquith had been speaking about fashion.
Miss Wainwright jumped in to save him. “I can’t imagine Lord Redver ruminates over shades of green, Godmama.”
“A shame,” Lady Asquith replied. She turned to Adrian. “If you cannot add to the conversation, why don’t you be so good as to take a stroll with Eliza?”
Eliza. His gaze settled on her and softened. He liked her given name. Shortened from Elizabeth, he supposed.
She cast a baffled glance at her godmother before rising to meet him. She declined his arm but strolled close enough beside him for their shoulders to occasionally brush.
While he was acutely aware of every accidental contact, she appeared oblivious. On the other hand, she did nothing to increase the distance between them.
“Your plan appears to be working.” Eliza broke the silence.
“My plan?”
“To dazzle Godmama.”
“Is it?” He glanced back over his shoulder. “Doubtful.” He sighed in an exaggerated fashion. “If only I were Spanish fly.”
“A Spanish—” She interrupted herself with a musical laugh. “You’re referring to the shade of green, aren’t you?”
He liked her laughter. He liked having made her laugh even more.
She squinted one eye. “Oh, please. If anything, you’re olive.”
“Do you mean to wound me?” He clutched his heart. “I warn you—I’ll accept nothing short of rifle.”
She nudged his shoulder with her own, this time, on purpose.
He wanted to preserve the moment…stuff his pockets with the puffed up, giddy feeling, so that, in some dark future when she’d moved on to her secret betrothed, he could take out the memory and lighten his mood.
He studied her face, against the background of grass and water. “Sage, I think, would bring out your features. Or Willow…like the dress you were wearing last night.”
She blushed becomingly. “Observant.”
Even more satisfactory than making her laugh? Making her blush.
“The sparkling buds were a nice touch.”
She glanced at him suspiciously. Then she shrugged. “What can I say? I do love a touch of sparkle.”
Touch of sparkle. Something stirred in the back of his mind, but before he could place the memory, a bird trilled in a nearby tree.
He found the source of the song—a small, male blackbird perched on a nearby branch, his feathers puffed out against the cold. A blackbird.
How odd.
Coincidence? Most certainly.
Suddenly, however, it occurred to him that if he could combine the Blackbird’s fearless, passionate curiosity with Miss Wainwright’s blend of humor and conversational gifts he’d—well, hell—he’d likely propose on the spot.
“What are you staring at?” she asked.
“I’m not staring, I’m listening.”
The bird picked at his feathers. Then, he lifted his beak, trilled again, paused to cock his head and blink. Then, he delivered a long series of low, mournful phrases.
“Umm. Now, I hear. I believe it’s a—” She stopped. “Magpie?”
He cast a frown over his shoulder. “Didn’t you say you’d grown up in the country?”
“Magpies can sound like any bird they wish.”
“So they can.” He frowned. Magpies and blackbirds. Yet another strange parallel. “That, however, is a blackbird.” He pointed to the bird in the tree. “See?”
She came to stand beside him and, together, they stared up into the branches.
The feathered creature sang, paused, and then sang again.
“The blackbird’s song is distinctive. Deep tones. Short phrases.”
“Have you made a study of birdsong?”
“Not intentionally.” How extraordinarily odd he must appear to her. How odd he appeared to himself. “I was left alone quite frequently as a child.”
She laid a sympathetic hand on his arm.
He could have kicked himself for that little revelation. On the other hand, he did not regret her touch, or her presence at his side.
He cleared his throat. “Early for a blackbird.”
She lifted her shoulders and shivered. “Early for a picnic, too.”
Without thinking, he removed his coat—just as he would have done for Emily or Caroline. Only after he’d hung it around her shoulders, then looked down into her enquiring face did he realize how presumptuous his actions had been.
How intimate…
“Thank you,” she said softly. “Much better, now.”
How small she looked, with his coat hanging off her shoulders. Even as the cold seeped into his bones, he wondered if his residual warmth was keeping her comfortable.
Caroline’s warning replayed in his mind. Miss Wainwright is young, impressionable, and innocent. No matter how spirited, Miss Wainwright was not the Blackbird.
He’d been too forward. “Shall we go back?”
“Yes.”
She placed her hand against his arm and, together, they headed back.
“I haven’t explored as much of London as I would like,” she said conversationally. “I’m very much looking forward to going to the Royal Academy with you tomorrow.”
Another delightful zing of satisfaction. “Are you?”
“Is that so hard to believe?”
She glanced at him. Her shy smile lodged like a dagger between his ribs.
“I like you, Lord Redver.”
“I’m glad.” He hesitated. “I like you, too.”
His voice had come out just a tad hoarse. But her smile broadened. And, Adrian discovered, he no longer needed his coat to feel pleasantly warm.
The next day, Lady Asquith developed a touch of catarrh—consisting of a stuffy nose and a low fever and declined to join the expedition to the Royal Academy.
Eliza had fretted, believing that they, too, must cancel.
But Lady Asquith insisted she and Cassandra go, saying that, given the exigent circumstances, the two of them could serve as the other’s chaperone.
Eliza wasn’t sure that was wise.
Redver was still dangerous—if not in the way she’d first thought.
He was dangerous because she was starting to care. Care about his opinions. Care about his thoughts. Care about his concerns. And she could not afford such care.