“Oh, indeed, my lady,” Alex replied, “and such a pleasure to find you here!” She lowered her voice, adding in a nearwhisper, “I wasn’t sure what I would discover!”
The countess, ever the portrait of propriety, replied with all decorum, “I’m certain Blackmoor will protect you from anything overly unusual, my dear.”
Alex looked at her companion and tilted her head, pretending to consider the statement before turning back to the countess. “I suppose he’ll have to do.”
The cheek of the statement in such a public locale surprised the older woman, who met Blackmoor’s laughing eyes and shook her head slightly and spoke with disdain, “Young people…so different from the way we were in my day.”
Alex immediately dipped her head in chagrin. “I beg your pardon, my lady.”
The countess nodded curtly in farewell to both of them and moved off to greet the next acquaintance she found on the path, leaving Alex to turn a concerned look on Blackmoor. “Well, that came off rather poorly, it seems.”
Blackmoor tried to hide his humor, somewhat unsuccessfully. “You shouldn’t allow her opinion to dictate your behavior.”
Alex winced. “Lady Shrewsbury is not incorrect. I should endeavor to be more ladylike and less…well…not. More like her.”
“Lady Shrewsbury”—he said the name as if he had just received a whiff of a not altogether pleasant scent—“has always been the portrait of stiffness and staidness. You should endeavor to be nothing like her.”
“Her opinion about my…candor…is shared by many of our parents’ set.”
“Nonsense,” he said, tipping his hat to the Marquess of Houghton, who was riding alongside the eldest daughter of Viscount Grosvenor. “Your candidness is charming and not at all off-putting. Our parents’ friends adore you. You are…lively.”
“Lively.” Alex tested the word on her tongue. “That makes me sound like an unpredictable racing horse.” A broad grin spread across Blackmoor’s face and Alex resisted the urge to hit him. That would have been unpredictable. “Do you think me horselike, my lord?”
Realizing the threat to his personage, Blackmoor wiped the smile from his face and replied, “Not at all. I said I think you charming.”
“A fine start.”
“And I appreciate your exuberance.” His eyes glittered with barely contained laughter.
“Like that of a child.” Hers sparkled with irritation.
“And, of course, you are entertaining.”
“Excellent. Like the aforementioned child’s toy.”
He couldn’t hide a chuckle. “Not at all. You are a far better companion than any of the toys I had as a child.”
“Oh, I am most flattered.”
“You should be. I had some tremendous toys.”
Eyes wide, she turned on him, catching his laughing gaze. “Oh! You are incorrigible! Between you and my brothers, it’s no wonder I can’t manage to be more of a delicate flower!”
Blackmoor stopped in the midst of acknowledging the Viscountess of Hawksmore, who, accompanied by her enormous black poodle, walked past. He turned back to Alex and answered with one eyebrow raised, “I beg your pardon? A delicate flower?”
Alex sat back in the curricle, quoting in a singsong voice, “A young lady should be as a delicate flower; a fragile bud, with care, will blossom by the hour.”
Blackmoor’s eyes widened. “Where on earth did you hear that rubbish?”
“My governess.”
“I do not traditionally speak ill of women, but your governess is a cabbagehead.” Alex laughed as Blackmoor continued in horror, “What a ridiculous sentiment. No one could actually take it seriously. It rhymes, for goodness sake.”
She leaned out to take the hand of Lady Redding, greeting her as she rode past on a magnificent grey. Turning back to Blackmoor, she said, “Of course, it rhymes. It’s supposed to be easily remembered.”
“It should be forgotten. Promptly.”
“Oh, and I imagine you’re going to tell me that it is incorrect? That men don’t want wives whom they can mold into the bloom of their choice? That we are not merely bulbs to be gardened by our husbands?”
“The flower metaphor is insulting in any number of ways. Primarily to our intelligence. I beg you to cease using it.”
“Fine. But the point remains. Men refuse to consider the possibility that women have their own opinions, their own character. And women…well, we are as much to blame. We allow you to believe that we simply wait to be guided by your superior intellect and sense of right. You saw the letters I received this morning, Blackmoor. They want me because I am rich. Or perhaps because I am young. Or attractive enough. But do you truly believe that those men will continue to court me when they see that I joke and tease with my brothers? When they find that I am far more at home in the stables than in the sewing room? When they discover that I read the newspaper and enjoy discussing politics?”
“I think that if they don’t want all those things, you’re better off without them.”
Alex rolled her eyes. “That’s not the issue. I’m better off without the lot of you. Perhaps I would consider being married to someone who didn’t mind all my ‘unladylike’ qualities…but I’m safe from the institution either way. The fact is, no man wants a woman who is his intellectual equal.”
“Your generalizations wound me,” he said wryly as he tipped his hat to the Duke of Nottingham, who raised his walking stick in response.
The countess, ever the portrait of propriety, replied with all decorum, “I’m certain Blackmoor will protect you from anything overly unusual, my dear.”
Alex looked at her companion and tilted her head, pretending to consider the statement before turning back to the countess. “I suppose he’ll have to do.”
The cheek of the statement in such a public locale surprised the older woman, who met Blackmoor’s laughing eyes and shook her head slightly and spoke with disdain, “Young people…so different from the way we were in my day.”
Alex immediately dipped her head in chagrin. “I beg your pardon, my lady.”
The countess nodded curtly in farewell to both of them and moved off to greet the next acquaintance she found on the path, leaving Alex to turn a concerned look on Blackmoor. “Well, that came off rather poorly, it seems.”
Blackmoor tried to hide his humor, somewhat unsuccessfully. “You shouldn’t allow her opinion to dictate your behavior.”
Alex winced. “Lady Shrewsbury is not incorrect. I should endeavor to be more ladylike and less…well…not. More like her.”
“Lady Shrewsbury”—he said the name as if he had just received a whiff of a not altogether pleasant scent—“has always been the portrait of stiffness and staidness. You should endeavor to be nothing like her.”
“Her opinion about my…candor…is shared by many of our parents’ set.”
“Nonsense,” he said, tipping his hat to the Marquess of Houghton, who was riding alongside the eldest daughter of Viscount Grosvenor. “Your candidness is charming and not at all off-putting. Our parents’ friends adore you. You are…lively.”
“Lively.” Alex tested the word on her tongue. “That makes me sound like an unpredictable racing horse.” A broad grin spread across Blackmoor’s face and Alex resisted the urge to hit him. That would have been unpredictable. “Do you think me horselike, my lord?”
Realizing the threat to his personage, Blackmoor wiped the smile from his face and replied, “Not at all. I said I think you charming.”
“A fine start.”
“And I appreciate your exuberance.” His eyes glittered with barely contained laughter.
“Like that of a child.” Hers sparkled with irritation.
“And, of course, you are entertaining.”
“Excellent. Like the aforementioned child’s toy.”
He couldn’t hide a chuckle. “Not at all. You are a far better companion than any of the toys I had as a child.”
“Oh, I am most flattered.”
“You should be. I had some tremendous toys.”
Eyes wide, she turned on him, catching his laughing gaze. “Oh! You are incorrigible! Between you and my brothers, it’s no wonder I can’t manage to be more of a delicate flower!”
Blackmoor stopped in the midst of acknowledging the Viscountess of Hawksmore, who, accompanied by her enormous black poodle, walked past. He turned back to Alex and answered with one eyebrow raised, “I beg your pardon? A delicate flower?”
Alex sat back in the curricle, quoting in a singsong voice, “A young lady should be as a delicate flower; a fragile bud, with care, will blossom by the hour.”
Blackmoor’s eyes widened. “Where on earth did you hear that rubbish?”
“My governess.”
“I do not traditionally speak ill of women, but your governess is a cabbagehead.” Alex laughed as Blackmoor continued in horror, “What a ridiculous sentiment. No one could actually take it seriously. It rhymes, for goodness sake.”
She leaned out to take the hand of Lady Redding, greeting her as she rode past on a magnificent grey. Turning back to Blackmoor, she said, “Of course, it rhymes. It’s supposed to be easily remembered.”
“It should be forgotten. Promptly.”
“Oh, and I imagine you’re going to tell me that it is incorrect? That men don’t want wives whom they can mold into the bloom of their choice? That we are not merely bulbs to be gardened by our husbands?”
“The flower metaphor is insulting in any number of ways. Primarily to our intelligence. I beg you to cease using it.”
“Fine. But the point remains. Men refuse to consider the possibility that women have their own opinions, their own character. And women…well, we are as much to blame. We allow you to believe that we simply wait to be guided by your superior intellect and sense of right. You saw the letters I received this morning, Blackmoor. They want me because I am rich. Or perhaps because I am young. Or attractive enough. But do you truly believe that those men will continue to court me when they see that I joke and tease with my brothers? When they find that I am far more at home in the stables than in the sewing room? When they discover that I read the newspaper and enjoy discussing politics?”
“I think that if they don’t want all those things, you’re better off without them.”
Alex rolled her eyes. “That’s not the issue. I’m better off without the lot of you. Perhaps I would consider being married to someone who didn’t mind all my ‘unladylike’ qualities…but I’m safe from the institution either way. The fact is, no man wants a woman who is his intellectual equal.”
“Your generalizations wound me,” he said wryly as he tipped his hat to the Duke of Nottingham, who raised his walking stick in response.
