Not at all to his surprise, the older woman capitulated—barely. ‘Lieutenant,’ she acknowledged with the slightest incline of her head.
‘Lady Isabelle,’ he replied, offering a bow considerably more polite than the one he’d given Lord Halden.
‘Shall we be off?’ Lady Stoneway said, obviously reluctant to press her luck any further with the matron. Her aunt’s kindness—and concern for Miss Lattimar’s status—were the only reasons Johnnie resisted the urge to further tweak Lady Isabelle by insisting he accompany them.
‘I should be going myself,’ he said, with an ironic quirk of his lip. ‘Good day to you all. Miss Lattimar,’ he added, unable to stop himself as they turned. ‘Safeguarding you was a pleasure.’
Her eyes lit up and the smile she gave him was pure enchantment. ‘I very much appreciated it,’ she replied, before taking her aunt’s arm and walking off, Lady Isabelle beside them.
Johnnie stood and watched them until her lovely figure disappeared from view.
Reviewing his impressions after their second meeting, Johnnie found Miss Lattimar’s appeal had only increased. Along with the physical attraction he would expect her beauty to evoke in any red-blooded male, he’d felt an unexpected and disturbingly powerful connection on some deeper level. Having had a glimpse of the exuberant, uninhibited character she was trying to suppress—he chuckled, envisioning her, skirts held up, wading in the Sidney Garden fountain—he felt a strong urge to prompt her to be herself, without restraint. Even though the woman she became when she did so was not just more natural, she was even more devilishly attractive.
He sighed. He very much wished he could pursue her openly—in spite of the fact that he had never previously pursued, nor had any use for, a well-bred virgin. Following that trail led to marriage, something he had always avoided. Not just because he wasn’t sure, with the vast floral garden of the feminine beauty and charm the world had to offer, he’d be able to limit himself for a lifetime to plucking just one bloom.
He also knew his wanderlust nature too well and the chances that he’d ever want to stay for long in one place were slim. A good English wife would probably prefer a settled countryside home with a husband in it to look after her and any children. To offer marriage without being able to pledge that wouldn’t be fair to any lady, no matter how much she attracted him.
And when he travelled, he travelled alone. He’d witnessed first-hand the agony of someone who’d lost a beloved. He might sometimes be lonely enough to wish for a heart’s companion, but loneliness was an old friend, something he’d grown accustomed to enduring. Better to suffer a quiet flame than to open oneself to an all-consuming conflagration.
How unfortunate the enchanting Miss Lattimar wasn’t the worldly-wise Mrs Lattimar! Were she a dashing widow, he would have free rein to indulge in the delightful dance of desire. Sadly, seducing and then abandoning a well-born innocent was out of the question.
To experience the charm of Miss Lattimar’s intriguing personality, he was pretty sure he could settle for friendship—novel as the notion was of being merely a friend to a desirable woman. But if he respected her desire to change society’s perception of her from a scandalous young woman to a well-behaved, conventional Beauty, he couldn’t lure her into solitary rendezvous. No matter how attractive the prospect of amusing her with further tales of his exploits or exchanging philosophical observations on the world.
For the first time, he regretted spending his adulthood roaming the world, collecting the stories and lovers that made him unsuitable company for a girl trying to redeem her reputation.
Never one to dismiss a desired goal as impossible, he put aside for the moment the problem of how to become her friend without compromising that quest and shifted his focus to the next issue.
What about Lord Halden Fitzroy-Price?
He’d heard that the Duke’s son—handsome, well born, and behaving like he knew it—was languishing in Bath, supported by the beneficence of his rich cousin while he awaited a desirable sinecure as a cleric.
Johnnie might not be intimately acquainted with the inside of a church, but based on his few exchanges with the man, Lord Halden appeared to be less well suited than any individual he’d recently met to become a clergyman. Unless a parish wanted as pastor of their flock a self-important, arrogant man faintly contemptuous of those he believed were beneath him.
If that were truly his character, Johnnie wouldn’t want to see a lady as lovely, charming, and innocent of the ways of vice as Miss Lattimar wasting herself on him.
He stopped short, surprised at the ferocity of that feeling. Why should he feel so protective of a girl he barely knew?
He might have only met her twice, but her unique personality intrigued him. He genuinely liked her. Almost immediately, there had sprung up a sort of...kinship between them.
Maybe he felt so strongly because he understood all too well what it was like to be a member of a disreputable family, to be accused of the same faults and vices by people who knew nothing about one but the family name—Lord Halden’s dismissive remarks recurring to irritate him again.
He had no doubt whatsoever about his ability to best the Duke’s son and any of his toy-soldier compatriots, but a gently born female like Miss Lattimar had few weapons with which to counter their malice. The warrior in him naturally felt compelled to defend someone smaller and weaker.
For all those reasons—admiration, desire, anger on her behalf about how she was treated—he felt linked to Miss Lattimar by the same sort of bonds a soldier develops for his fellows, a loyalty that propels him to watch out for and protect others in battle, even at the risk of his own life.
Dismissing the ‘why’, his officer’s brain shifted to the ‘how’, mulling over the best strategy for his next move. He had to admit, having suffered slights and insults in the past from men of Fitzroy-Price’s rank and birth, the man’s position as a duke’s son automatically prejudiced Johnnie against him. He really ought to reserve judgement until he had observed him long enough to make a dispassionate assessment of the man’s character.
After a bit more reflection, he came up with a plan. It might, he thought with a grin, astonish his aunt, but it would also accomplish both the goal of keeping an eye on Fitzroy-Price and allowing Johnnie to satisfy his pressing desire to see more of the delectable Miss Lattimar, without risk to her reputation.
After all, even his aunt would have to admit that staying near enough to make sure Miss Lattimar came to no harm would be the noble act of a selfless friend.
Returning to his aunt’s town house in Queen Square, Johnnie tracked down Aunt Pen in her private salon, where she was dozing, some needlework abandoned in her lap.
He paused on the threshold, his fond glance tracing over a figure that radiated confidence and independence even in sleep. Penelope Woodlings wasn’t just the most interesting of his relations, she was also the one who’d been least interested in society—and the sole encourager of an energetic young boy, youngest of a large brood and left to his own devices. The happiest memories of his childhood had been created while visiting her and her reclusive scholarly husband at their rambling country estate, joining her and her two sons in collecting rocks and bugs, chasing butterflies, climbing up trees after bird nests and crawling into dens to inspect the homes of badgers and foxes.
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