“No, not at all. You’re right about American girls—they’re more likely to kick a man in the shins if he offends her rather than whimpering behind a potted palm in a corner.”
“Are you speaking from experience?”
“Yes, of course. I’ve seen both. For myself, I’d prefer the attempt to the shin.”
“No attempt. I’d do it, fast and hard.”
“I suppose you could try. A gentleman is at a disadvantage, of course, since he can’t kick you back. You’ve a sharp mouth on you, Miss Carrick. You’ve got a vicious streak too, if I’m not mistaken—about the female of the species, I rarely am mistaken.” Except one time, he thought, feeling the damnable familiar pain slice through him. One time he’d been so damnably blind—No, he wouldn’t think about it. It was long in the past. He was home again, and he knew, knew to his heels, that no one blamed him. It never ceased to amaze and humble him. He wondered if he would ever stop blaming himself and knew he wouldn’t.
He looked back at her, wondering what she’d look like with that marvelous hair of hers loose around her shoulders instead of in a single fat braid. If he wasn’t mistaken, and he didn’t think he was, he thought she looked hurt. Hurt at what? What he’d said? No, impossible, not this tiger of a girl, this baggage whose mouth would have to be taped over to keep her quiet. “Perhaps it would make you feel better toward me if you knew I’ve never had a girl try to kick me in the shins or sob behind a potted palm.”
“That’s because every female in the vicinity is hanging all over you,” she said quite matter-of-factly. “Enough pandering, else you will become even more conceited than you are now. Listen to me. I’m worried, I’ll admit it. I mean, I know that since Thomas Hoverton sold me his property, I am the real owner, but this solicitor business, well—”
“As I said, Miss Carrick, there are many properties for you to buy. This is the only one that is close to my home.” He hated going over problems when he could see that each side had some right going for it. He said instead, “Did you know that your name nearly rhymes with my sister-in-law’s?”
“Corrie. Hallie. Yes, it is close, looking at the names. She is very smart.”
“Why do you think Corrie is very smart?”
“It’s obvious. Oh, I see, as a man, you wouldn’t notice a female brain if it winked up at you in your soup. She deals well with her husband.”
“Yes, she would kill for James.”
“Like Melissa would kill for Leo.”
“Evidently.”
“Your feet are bare, Mr. Sherbrooke. And that dressing gown you’re wearing is very tatty and old.”
“It belongs to my cousin Grayson. I forgot to pack anything. I arrived home just in time to change clothes and come galloping here. You look like a whipped-up dessert, Miss Carrick, all soft and fluffy and peachy.”
“Yes, well, it was a gift from my aunt Arielle when she thought I was going to marry—” She slammed her hands over her mouth, looked horrified that those words had popped right out of her mouth. She took a step back, clutched at the flowing peach silk dressing gown and pulled it so tight over her breasts that beneath that lovely moonlight, he could see through to her lovely white skin.
She knew he was going to blight her: she’d just blurted out some powerful ammunition, but “Hmm,” was all he said, nothing more. She still backed up three steps until her back hit against a climbing rosebush. A thorn must have stuck her because she jumped, stepped away.
Then, he saw, she simply couldn’t stand it. “Oh, go ahead and mock me about this, I know you want to.”
“Actually, I don’t. Now, my father will speak to Melissa’s parents since they’re in charge of you.”
“They aren’t in charge of me, damn you.”
“Very well, but you are their guest, are you not?”
“Yes, I suppose. I was going
to leave for Ravensworth tomorrow in any case. But not now.”
“No, not now. You will have to come back to Northcliffe Hall with us tomorrow,” he said. “Then we will all go to London together. My father will send a messenger to your uncle.”
“Yes, all right. I want this to be resolved quickly. I want to move into my new property.”
“I don’t suppose you planned on living at Lyon’s Gate alone? You’re a young lady—well, you’re more young than not, I suppose.”
“I hadn’t really thought about it,” she said slowly. “This has all happened so quickly. There must be some spare relative hanging about who could come to Lyon’s Gate to live with me. My aunt Arielle is sure to know of someone.”
“How about my grandmother?”
“I didn’t meet her, but isn’t she dreadfully old?”