Page 28 of More or Less a Countess
“And this vivid imagination of hers led her to believe you were on a search for ghosts, without any encouragement on your part? How singular.”
“Oh, for pity’s sake. Very well, my lord, if you insist on having the whole of it. There are rumors the Cockpit Steps are haunted by the ghost of a lady whose husband beheaded her. Of course I never expected to see her ghost. I only came to get a sketch of the steps, though I won’t deny I rather hoped Iwouldsee a ghost. No.” She held up a hand when he tried to interrupt. “I don’t believe in ghosts, my lord. I only mean to say that sometimes imagination is a great deal more amusing than reality.”
It was a logical enough explanation, and she appeared perfectly lucid as she delivered it, but those afflicted with madness often had periods of clarity. “Why venture out at night if you only wanted to sketch the Cockpit Steps? Surely it would have been easy enough—not to mention a great deal safer—for you to wait until tomorrow.”
Her mouth took on a stubborn cast. “I wanted to get the shadows on the steps, and truly, there was plenty of light when we set out. It’s only the rain that makes it so dark.”
“But why, Miss Somerset, is it so important you get the sketch at all? Why not sketch some flowers, or some kittens in a basket, and be done with it?”
“Do you find kittens in a basket stimulating, my lord?”
“No, not especially.”
“Then why should you suppose I would?”
Despite his misgivings, Nick’s lips curved in a reluctant grin. Miss Somerset might be mad, but she was damned amusing. He couldn’t recall ever being so entertained by a woman before—that is, not a woman who was still clothed.
“Ah. So you’re a true artist, then? Well, that explains why you’ve got a sketch of Tower Hill in your sketchbook. I can’t fault your artistic skills, certainly. Pity you didn’t include a head rolling about on the grass. Or wasn’t there a beheading that day?”
Her lips thinned. “Did you peek into my sketchbook, Lord Dare? I’d begun to think of you as a gentleman after your gallant assistance this evening, but a gentleman doesn’t rifle through a lady’s personal belongings without her permission.”
Nick ignored this. “Beheadings, Newgate Prison, burial grounds, and headless ghosts—not quite kittens in a basket, is it?” He leaned toward her. “They’re rather…unusualsubjects for a young lady’s artistic endeavors. Tell me, Miss Somerset. What do you hope to gain from your pursuits?”
Persuade me you’re not mad.
Perhaps her oddities could be explained as the antics of an overzealous artist or a determined bluestocking. After all, a gentleman could marry a bluestocking without any concern for the sanity of his future children.
He held his breath as she parted her lips to speak, but then she shook her head and snapped her mouth closed again without saying a word.
Even pressed into a thin, disapproving line, her mouth was lovely. Pink, and then she had such fair skin her lips looked like berries in a dish of smooth, sweet cream. Such delicate coloring for such a vibrant lady, but then her eyes gave her away. Determination burned in those dark blue depths.
But then maybe it wasn’t determination at all. Couldn’t it just as easily be the fevered mania of the mentally afflicted?
Damn it, was the chit insane, or not? Not many bedlamites had her quickness, but that sketch of Tower Hill, well…even without the head rolling about on the grass, a preoccupation with execution sites was a trifle worrying in a prospective bride. “Are you engaged in some sort of study, Miss Somerset? Are you searching London’s dark streets for Drunken Rogues and other Miscreants?”
She recognized the phrase at once, and her brows lowered. “Perhaps Iamengaged in a study, but one needn’t roam the streets of London to find rogues, Lord Dare. One stumbles across them in the least likely places, don’t they? Dinner parties,libraries…”
Nick had been distracted by the way the pink color flooded back into her lips once she’d opened them, but at this he jerked his gaze back to her eyes. “I beg your pardon?”
She waved off his question. “Perhaps it would be best if you took me back to Bedford Square now, my lord. I’m certain my sister must be worried about me.”
“Yes,” he murmured. “Perhaps that would be best.”
He rapped on the roof of the carriage, but they’d hardly moved an inch when she surprised him by taking his hand.
“Lord Dare, I—thank you for your assistance this evening, truly. I shudder to think what might have happened if you hadn’t come along. I’m very grateful to you.”
“It’s fortunate I happened to be near. I’m pleased I could assist you, Miss Somerset.”
He forced a smile, patted her hand, then started to draw away, but she held fast to him, pressing his hand between her own. “Will you call on me tomorrow, my lord?” It was a bold request, and her face colored a little. “I, ah…you’ve been so kind, and I think I’d feel better about my ordeal tonight if I could reassure you of my full recovery tomorrow.”
It was the most encouragement Nick had ever gotten from her. He studied her face for some sign she’d softened toward him, and he did see a tiny shift in her expression, something so strange and fleeting he could almost believe he’d imagined it, but it wasn’t softness. It wasn’t yearning, or maidenly bashfulness, or stark desire—it wasn’t any of the things he was accustomed to seeing on a lady’s face when he singled her out for his attention.
It looked like…determination.
Or madness.
Before Nick could decide which, she disguised the strange expression with a smile, and he shrugged off his curiosity. Perhaps his chivalry this evening had been enough to crack her icy resistance, but it was too late. He hadn’t gained any clarity regarding her sanity, and that left him only one choice.
