“Lord Fairfax thinks that my hair is the color of the eastern sky at dawn.”
“Lord Fairfax is your father’s age.”
“Granted, but it’s a flattering sentiment.” At his harrumph, she continued, “Oh, my. The Marquess of Jonesborough requests I join him for a ride in his phaeton this afternoon; only he fears that my beauty will blind his horses.” The end of the sentence was swallowed by Alex’s own disbelieving giggle. “Surely he can’t think I would take that seriously.”
“Considering how seriously Jonesborough takes himself, I can’t imagine how he would think otherwise.”
Shuffling through several more cards quickly, Alex rolled her eyes to the ceiling and groaned, “What am I going to do? I actually must go riding with one of these dolts!” Leveling him with a glance, she queried with a sparkle in her eye, “You don’t write such tripe to the women you hope to interest, do you?”
“I should hope not,” he responded indignantly. “Good God, I have much more originality. These men clearly aren’t thinking about how best they can interest you.”
“What does that mean?”
“Quite simply, you’re not the type to be wooed with poetry or false compliments.”
“I’m not?” Now she was interested. “But I like poetry.”
His reply brooked no rebuttal. “No, you don’t. Not like this. They haven’t got it right at all.”
“Enlighten me, Lord Blackmoor, how should I be wooed, as you put it? I am intrigued by your obvious expertise.”
He was quick to respond, “You’re too vibrant for them. Too strong. You have a sharp mind and an exciting personality and an unexpected sense of humor. If these men were half the man you deserve, they would have already recognized all those things and they would be romancing you accordingly. They would be working to intrigue and amuse and inspire you—just as you do them. And they would know that only when they have won your mind will they even have a chance at winning your heart.”
The room felt much warmer all of a sudden, and Alex resisted the urge to fan herself, trying to ignore the rapid increase in her pulse as color flooded her cheeks. In the silence that followed his impassioned speech, Gavin stood and walked over to her. A cocky grin spread across his face. “That’s how I write to the women I hope to interest, Alex.”
She attempted a cool response. “Perhaps…” Her voice caught and she cleared her throat, beginning anew. “Perhaps you should consider holding classes. I am acquainted with quite a few men who could do with some training. More than forty of them, it seems. Lord save me.”
He chuckled as he removed the pile of calling cards from her hand and set them on a nearby table. Offering her a hand, he pulled her up to stand in front of him. “There’s only one way to save you from them today.”
“Oh?” The single syllable was all she could manage. Had he always been this broad? This tall? Had his eyes always been such a dark, smoky grey?
“Come riding with me.”
eight
Alex sat tall in the high, two-seated carriage, one hand keeping her bonnet from flying off as the fleet-footed team of horses trotted down Park Lane toward Hyde Park. She smiled up at Blackmoor from underneath the wide-brimmed hat, green eyes flashing. “I certainly prefer riding with you, my lord.”
“I thought you might.”
“May I drive?”
“You think I’d consider handing over the reins of this remarkable equipage?” He replied with feigned superiority. For generations, the Earls of Blackmoor had prided themselves on having the most current and impressive modes of transportation. The most recent earl was no different, and the brand-new curricle in which they were riding was certain to be the envy of many.
“Indeed. I think you’d enjoy the experience of teaching me how.”
“I’ve had this curricle for less than a week, Alex. You’re not driving.”
Alex replied with a comic pout, “I shall convince you otherwise, my lord. I warn you.”
“Indeed? Well you are welcome to try, my lady.”
He flashed a broad grin at her and called to his team as they turned into the park, offering a quick “Hold on!” to Alex. The carriage tilted slightly, and she grabbed the seat beneath her, yelping as they slowed to a crawl, waiting to take a place in the mass of people walking and riding along the Serpentine that afternoon. Turning a lazy smile on her, he inquired, “All right?”
“Fine, now that I’m not in danger of toppling out of the curricle!” She cast him a sidelong glance and caught his snicker. “You meant to terrify me!”
“Never!” he defended himself, the portrait of innocence. “I suggested you hold on, did I not?”
Exasperated, she rolled her eyes, turning to look around them. The ride along Rotten Row in Hyde Park at this, the fashionable hour, was one of the most revered traditions in London aristocracy. It was a chance to see and be seen, to display one’s position in society, and, more than anything else, to witness—and perpetuate—the latest gossip of the ton. The path was packed with members of the beau monde, in open-air carriages, on horseback, walking along the sandy path, men with their walking sticks, women with their silk bonnets and pale linen parasols. Alex smiled brightly at the Countess of Shrewsbury, as the older woman tipped her head and reached out a hand to greet her.
“Lady Alexandra, Lord Blackmoor,” the countess said politely as Blackmoor tipped his hat. “‘Tis a fine afternoon for a ride, is it not?”
“Lord Fairfax is your father’s age.”
“Granted, but it’s a flattering sentiment.” At his harrumph, she continued, “Oh, my. The Marquess of Jonesborough requests I join him for a ride in his phaeton this afternoon; only he fears that my beauty will blind his horses.” The end of the sentence was swallowed by Alex’s own disbelieving giggle. “Surely he can’t think I would take that seriously.”
“Considering how seriously Jonesborough takes himself, I can’t imagine how he would think otherwise.”
Shuffling through several more cards quickly, Alex rolled her eyes to the ceiling and groaned, “What am I going to do? I actually must go riding with one of these dolts!” Leveling him with a glance, she queried with a sparkle in her eye, “You don’t write such tripe to the women you hope to interest, do you?”
“I should hope not,” he responded indignantly. “Good God, I have much more originality. These men clearly aren’t thinking about how best they can interest you.”
“What does that mean?”
“Quite simply, you’re not the type to be wooed with poetry or false compliments.”
“I’m not?” Now she was interested. “But I like poetry.”
His reply brooked no rebuttal. “No, you don’t. Not like this. They haven’t got it right at all.”
“Enlighten me, Lord Blackmoor, how should I be wooed, as you put it? I am intrigued by your obvious expertise.”
He was quick to respond, “You’re too vibrant for them. Too strong. You have a sharp mind and an exciting personality and an unexpected sense of humor. If these men were half the man you deserve, they would have already recognized all those things and they would be romancing you accordingly. They would be working to intrigue and amuse and inspire you—just as you do them. And they would know that only when they have won your mind will they even have a chance at winning your heart.”
The room felt much warmer all of a sudden, and Alex resisted the urge to fan herself, trying to ignore the rapid increase in her pulse as color flooded her cheeks. In the silence that followed his impassioned speech, Gavin stood and walked over to her. A cocky grin spread across his face. “That’s how I write to the women I hope to interest, Alex.”
She attempted a cool response. “Perhaps…” Her voice caught and she cleared her throat, beginning anew. “Perhaps you should consider holding classes. I am acquainted with quite a few men who could do with some training. More than forty of them, it seems. Lord save me.”
He chuckled as he removed the pile of calling cards from her hand and set them on a nearby table. Offering her a hand, he pulled her up to stand in front of him. “There’s only one way to save you from them today.”
“Oh?” The single syllable was all she could manage. Had he always been this broad? This tall? Had his eyes always been such a dark, smoky grey?
“Come riding with me.”
eight
Alex sat tall in the high, two-seated carriage, one hand keeping her bonnet from flying off as the fleet-footed team of horses trotted down Park Lane toward Hyde Park. She smiled up at Blackmoor from underneath the wide-brimmed hat, green eyes flashing. “I certainly prefer riding with you, my lord.”
“I thought you might.”
“May I drive?”
“You think I’d consider handing over the reins of this remarkable equipage?” He replied with feigned superiority. For generations, the Earls of Blackmoor had prided themselves on having the most current and impressive modes of transportation. The most recent earl was no different, and the brand-new curricle in which they were riding was certain to be the envy of many.
“Indeed. I think you’d enjoy the experience of teaching me how.”
“I’ve had this curricle for less than a week, Alex. You’re not driving.”
Alex replied with a comic pout, “I shall convince you otherwise, my lord. I warn you.”
“Indeed? Well you are welcome to try, my lady.”
He flashed a broad grin at her and called to his team as they turned into the park, offering a quick “Hold on!” to Alex. The carriage tilted slightly, and she grabbed the seat beneath her, yelping as they slowed to a crawl, waiting to take a place in the mass of people walking and riding along the Serpentine that afternoon. Turning a lazy smile on her, he inquired, “All right?”
“Fine, now that I’m not in danger of toppling out of the curricle!” She cast him a sidelong glance and caught his snicker. “You meant to terrify me!”
“Never!” he defended himself, the portrait of innocence. “I suggested you hold on, did I not?”
Exasperated, she rolled her eyes, turning to look around them. The ride along Rotten Row in Hyde Park at this, the fashionable hour, was one of the most revered traditions in London aristocracy. It was a chance to see and be seen, to display one’s position in society, and, more than anything else, to witness—and perpetuate—the latest gossip of the ton. The path was packed with members of the beau monde, in open-air carriages, on horseback, walking along the sandy path, men with their walking sticks, women with their silk bonnets and pale linen parasols. Alex smiled brightly at the Countess of Shrewsbury, as the older woman tipped her head and reached out a hand to greet her.
“Lady Alexandra, Lord Blackmoor,” the countess said politely as Blackmoor tipped his hat. “‘Tis a fine afternoon for a ride, is it not?”
