Lily met Caliban’s gaze across the clearing and felt heat climb her cheeks. His eyes were hot and intent.
He looked at her as if with a single kiss he’d already claimed her.
She glanced away, inhaling. It had only been one kiss and they hadn’t had a chance to speak properly since. Last night there’d been Maude, sharp and sarcastic and disapproving, and this morning Indio had been excited and scampering about. And that had been before Lady Phoebe and Captain Trevillion showed up.
“Who is it?” that lady asked, facing in the direction of the young man advancing toward them. Daffodil had finished welcoming him and was now dashing off to her master. Indio had previously wandered away from their tea party and was playing by the corner of the theater in what looked suspiciously like a mud puddle.
“I’ve no idea,” Lily replied, hoping she didn’t sound as irritable as she felt. Good Lord, Harte’s Folly had become like a county fair—a veritable crossroads of visitors. Belatedly she remembered her manners and tacked on, “My lady.”
Lady Phoebe smiled and asked softly, “What does he look like?”
Of course Lady Phoebe had no idea of the aspect or even the age of the man approaching them.
“He’s a young man with bright red hair and a comely face,” Lily answered quietly and quickly. “Wearing a black tricorn and an acorn-brown suit. The waistcoat is a lighter shade, more tan than brown, and trimmed in a fine scarlet ribbon. Not expensive, but well cut.” She cocked her head, considering. “He’s quite handsome, actually.”
“Oh, good,” Lady Phoebe said with some satisfaction, sitting back.
Lily only had time for a glance of amusement at the other woman—she really was quite delightful—before the gentleman was upon them.
“Good morning,” he called in a faint Scottish accent. He came to a stop, swept his hat from his head, and gave a lovely bow. “I am Mr. Malcolm MacLeish. Whom might I have the honor of addressing?”
“I am Miss Robin Goodfellow,” Lily said as she curtsied, “and this is Lady Phoebe Batten.”
“Good Lord!” Mr. MacLeish exclaimed, his bright-blue eyes opening wide as he staggered dramatically back. “An honor indeed, ladies! I had the privilege of attending a production of As You Like It a year or two ago, Miss Goodfellow, in which you were a most magnificent Rosalind.”
She curtsied again, amused at his profusion. “Thank you, sir.”
“And my Lady Phoebe,” Mr. MacLeish said, turning to her, “I am in awe of your presence.”
“Indeed, sir,” Lady Phoebe replied, cocking her head, with a trace of a smile playing about her mouth. She didn’t look quite in his direction. “At my mere presence?”
“Y-yes, my lady,” he replied, obviously uncertain if she teased or not. He darted a quick glance at Lily, but she decided to leave him to his own devices since he’d dug the hole for himself with his enthusiasm. “Your beauty alone is enough to put wonder in my gaze.”
Lady Phoebe burst into laughter. From any other lady it might’ve been taken as an insult or at the very least a gentle belittlement—but from her it was simply a sign of joyous amusement.
Lily couldn’t help grinning in sympathy—the other woman’s laughter was that infectious.
“But Mr. MacLeish,” Lady Phoebe said, bringing her mirth under control, “I’ve been told that you are yourself quite an ugly specimen of manhood.”
The young man’s eyes widened as sudden realization washed over his features, but to his credit he recovered quickly—and without insulting Lady Phoebe’s intelligence. “But my lady, I do protest. I am accorded one of the finest-looking gentlemen in England, with milk-white skin, straight teeth, blue eyes… and shining golden hair.”
Lady Phoebe shook her head. “Lying to a blind woman, Mr. MacLeish? I’ve already heard you have bright-red hair.”
“My lady, you wound me,” the young man exclaimed, hand to heart, though Lady Phoebe couldn’t see the gesture. “I vow I’ve had many a lady at my feet.”
“And elsewhere?” she asked, her eyelashes lowered.
“You shouldn’t tease the boy, my lady,” Captain Trevillion said as he limped to the table. Caliban was by his side, his eyes alert, Lily noticed. He gave her one blazing glance and then focused on the newcomer.
The captain’s words fell awkwardly on their light flirtation, breaking the effervescent mood.
Lady Phoebe stiffened.
Mr. MacLeish sobered immediately, eyeing the pistols strapped across Captain Trevillion’s chest. “And who might you be, sir?”
Before the man could reply, Lady Phoebe said, “This is Captain James Trevillion, who has been set to guard me by my brother, like a dog chained before a tasty pork pie.”
“I think of you, my lady, as more of an apple tart,” Captain Trevillion murmured. He turned to the younger man. “And you are?”