“Did you want him to kiss you, then?”
She stopped in the act of turning to go. He was still facing the gardens, away from her, but after a moment had passed and she said nothing, he glanced at her. “Did you?” he asked again, his voice a shade deeper.
Celia drew closer. He turned, now leaning on one elbow, his full attention fixed on her. She didn’t know another gentleman who could appear so approachable. She had forgotten how easy he was to talk to. “You mustn’t laugh at me, Anthony,” she warned, unconsciously using his Christian name as she had done for years. “I—I’ve never been kissed before, and it seemed like the perfect night for it, and…well, until he started demanding to know if I adored him, it was quite romantic. It was,” she protested as his mouth curved. “We can’t all be disreputable, with all sorts of scandalous adventures.”
His smile stiffened. “Nor should you be.”
“But you should?” She grinned, glad to be teasing him instead of the other way around. “Every gossip in London adores you, you know.”
He sighed, shaking his head. “I’m neither so daring nor so foolish as they like to think. Perhaps you, as a pillar of propriety, can tell me how to escape their pernicious notice.”
“Why, that is easy,” she said with a wave of one hand. “Find a girl, fall desperately in love with her, and settle down to have six children and raise dogs. No one will say a word about you, then.”
Anthony chuckled. “Ah, there’s the rub. What you suggest is more easily said than done, miss.”
“Have you ever tried?”
He shrugged. “No.”
“Then how can you say it’s so difficult?” she exclaimed. “There are dozens of young ladies looking for a husband. You must simply ask one—”
He gave a soft tsk. “I couldn’t possibly.”
“You could.”
“I couldn’t.”
Celia’s eyes lit. “That sounds almost like a challenge.”
He glanced at her from the corner of his eye, then grinned. “It’s not. Don’t try your matchmaking on me. I’m a hopeless case.”
“Of course you’re not,” she said stoutly. “Why, any lady in London—”
“Would not suit me, nor I her.”
“Miss Weatherby,” said Celia.
“Too thin.”
“Lady Jane Cranston.”
“Too tall.”
“Miss Alcomb.”
“Too…” He paused, his gaze sharpening on her as he thought, and Celia opened her mouth, ready to exclaim in delight that he could find no fault with Lucinda Alcomb, who was a very nice girl. “Too merry,” he said at last.
“Who would please you, then?” she burst out, laughing at his pleasant obstinacy.
He shifted, his eyes skipping across the garden again. “No one, perhaps.”
“You aren’t even trying to be fair. I know so many nice young ladies—”
Anthony gave a sharp huff. “This is quite a dull topic of conversation. We’ve had very fine weather this spring, don’t you think?”
“Anyone who took the trouble to know you would accept you,” Celia insisted, ignoring his efforts to turn the subject.
“You’ve gone and ruled out every woman in England.” He leaned over the railing, squinting into the darkness.
“Except myself,” Celia declared, and then she stopped. Good heavens, what had she just said?
Anthony seemed shocked as well. His head whipped around, and he stared at her with raised eyebrows. “I beg your pardon?”
Heat rushed to her face. “I—I meant that I know you, and know you’re not half so bad as you pretend to be.”
His gaze was riveted on her, so dark and intense Celia scarcely recognized him for a moment. Goodness, it was just Anthony, but for a moment, he was looking at her almost like…
“Not half so bad,” he murmured speculatively. “A rare compliment, if I do say so myself.”
She burst out laughing again, relieved that he was merely teasing her. That expression on his face—rather like a wolf’s before he sprang—unsettled her; it had made her think, for one mad moment, that he might in fact spring on her. And even worse, Celia realized that a small, naughty part of her was somewhat curious. No, rampantly curious. She might have let Lord Euston kiss her, but only for the satisfaction of being able to say she had been kissed. She had never expected to be swept away with passion by Lord Euston, who was, as Anthony had said, a dreadful bore. But a kiss from one of the most talked-about rakes in London…now, that would be something else altogether.
“You know what I meant,” she said, shaking off that curiosity as shocking and obviously forbidden. “I know you’ve quite a soft heart, although you hide it very well. As proof, I must point out that you’ve stood out here with me for some time now, trying to make me feel better after receiving the most appalling marriage proposal of all time. David would have laughed until he couldn’t stand upright, and then retold the tale to everyone he met.”
“Ah, but I am not your brother,” he replied, smiling easily although his gaze lingered on her face.
She was glad he couldn’t see her blush. “No, indeed! But because you are not”—she took the last sip of champagne from her glass before setting it on the balustrade—“I must return to the ballroom. I suppose you’ll continue to skulk in the shadows out here, and be appropriately wicked?”
“You know me too well.”
Celia laughed once more. “Good night, Anthony. And thank you.” She flashed him a parting smile and hurried away. Perhaps if she could make her mother see the humor, and idiocy, in Lord Euston’s proposal, Mama wouldn’t ask too many questions about where she’d been ever since.
Anthony listened to her rapid footsteps die away, counting every one. Seventeen steps, and then she was gone. He folded his arms on the balustrade once again, taking a deep breath. The faint scent of lemons lingered in the air. He wondered why she smelled of lemons and not rosewater or something other ladies wore.
“You gave away my champagne, I see,” said a voice behind him.
Anthony smiled and held out the untouched glass sitting next to his elbow. “No. I gave away mine.”
Fanny, Lady Drummond, took it with a coy look. “Indeed.” She turned, looking back at the house. “A bit young for your taste.”
“An old friend,” he said evenly. “The younger sister of a friend. Euston was giving her a spot of trouble.”
“Better and better,” exclaimed Fanny. “You are a knight in shining armor.”
Anthony shrugged. “Hardly.”
“Now, darling, I wouldn’t blame you.” She ran her fingers down his arm. “She’s the catch of the Season. Rumor holds her marriage portion is two hundred thousand pounds.”
“How do the gossips ferret out such information?”
“Persistent spying, I believe. Fouché’s agents would have been put to shame by the matrons of London.” Fanny rested the tip of her fan next to her mouth, studying him. “For a moment, I thought you had spotted your chance.”
Anthony tightened his lips and said nothing. The less said on this topic, the better. The scent of lemons was gone, banished by Fanny’s heavier perfume. “Have you?” pressed Fanny