Page 20 of The Wallflower Ruse

“For heaven’s sake, Algy,” Dorothea said, “or at least for England’s sake, stop it. How can you expect Lucy to help if you bait her constantly? Even if one knows you’re talking nonsense, it’s distracting.”

“Sorry,” Restive said. “Bad habit. No, seriously, I am sorry. I do know better.” Again, that rueful expression flitted across his features. “What I meant was that if any of the women know of a secret uprising or planned attack of some sort, it is likely to show somehow.”

“Or so we hope,” Cecil said. “There will probably be some fellows there too, poets and whatnot, or less savory sorts, seeking to take advantage.”

“That sounds like any society gathering,” Lucinda said, “without the matchmaking mamas, I suppose.”

“Ladies can be quite predatory even without their mamas,” Restive drawled. “That’s why we need you, love. My presence tends to extinguish the fire of intelligence and ignite that of lust.”

Lucinda had control of herself now and chose to ignore the improper term of endearment. “In that case, why don’t you stay home and send me with Lady Alice? I daresay we’ll do much better without you.”

“You’d be surprised what secrets are revealed under the influence of lust,” he said.

“Not only horrid, but vulgar and disgusting as well,” she retorted. Although, she thought fleetingly, not at all in the same way as Mr. Wharton.

“Alas, yes,” he sighed. “I despair of myself, but I’m obliged to live up to my unfortunate nickname."

Lucinda huffed. “Perhaps if you refrained from living up to it, people would stop using it, and then women would stop thinking it. I suppose you blow hot and cold on them as a tactic. Poor things, they’ll reveal anything if it makes you love them.”

“It’s one of my few skills.”

Lucinda turned to Dorothea. “Must I work with him? It’s incredibly wearisome.”

“Not if you don’t wish to, darling. It’s up to you.”

It occurred to Lucinda, just before she opened her mouth to refuse, that perhaps Restive didn’t really want her to go with him to Mrs. Haraldson’s. That he’d been pushed into it by Cecil, and that her comment about his hurt pride had made it worse. That his increasingly annoying behavior was a deliberate attempt to make her stay away.

How dare he! Revenge had never really appealed to her before, but now she saw why it could be considered sweet. She would do exactly as she pleased, and if he suffered for it, good. “In the interest of attending a meeting of bluestockings—which I have always longed to do—I’ll put up with Lord Restive just this once.”

~ * ~

Restive was being an ass, and he knew it. Why, oh why, was he showing his worst side to Lucy Belair?

There were three possible reasons.

One: That she would be a nuisance. He needed to find out what was about to happen on Beltane Eve. He would do far better without her. This reason might be valid.

Two: He preferred not to risk having her fall in love with him. It would upset her and infuriate the Hales. Not only that, it would be disrespectful of such an intelligent woman, and also unkind. (Although he was already being damned odious, which she didn’t deserve.) This reason also might be valid.

Three: He didn’t even want to think about that reason.

He set himself to being pleasant, polite, and neutral. “Tell me, Miss Belair, where did you learn to read Anglo-Saxon?”

“From a book in my father’s library,” she said. “An grammar of Old English by Elizabeth Elstob, who wrote it well over a century ago. My father had a copy. It’s one of the few I didn’t send to you after he died. I hid what I kept under a floorboard in my room.”

“An excellent book,” he said, enjoying the surprise in her eyes. “I came upon a copy purely by chance. Elizabeth Elstob is found somewhere far back on my family tree, and naturally a kind-hearted ancestor purchased her book but never actually read it. It remained pure and untouched on the shelf, like Perrault’s sleeping beauty, until I found it.”

What was wrong with him? Could he not avoid sensual allusions even for a sentence or two? Hastily, he added, “And learned to pick my way through various selections.”

“What interested you about reading such old English?” she asked.

“Boyish flights of fancy. Being, in my imagination, Beowulf defeating a monster, or a seafarer on a vessel plunging through stormy seas....” He grimaced. “And you?”

“I like languages. They’re a kind of code, you see—as well as windows on the past, in the case of Anglo-Saxon. It was fun reading it aloud and comparing how it might have been pronounced to present-day English, and noting what has changed greatly and what hasn’t. I learned to read Greek and Latin for the fun of it, as well as the usual French and Italian with my governess, many years ago.”

“You’re a scholar!” He grinned.

~ * ~