Once Upon a Maiden Lane (Maiden Lane #12.5)(21)

Beside her, Lord Blackwell stiffened.

Jo looked anxiously at her father.

Seymour’s smile fell. “No, of course not. Er…It was more a sort of jest.”

The earl ate a bite of the fish without replying.

“Well,” Lady Angrove said a trifle loudly. “I’m glad you’re back in London. You’ll be able to attend the ball we’re having to introduce Cecilia to society.”

Mary clutched her fork. “A ball?”

“Yes, dear,” the marchioness said. “Best to immediately show that we’ve acknowledged you. If we wait, it will only fuel rumors.”

“I see.” Mary looked down at her fish, feeling a bit queasy.

“It will be so exciting!” Jo clapped her hands. “We’ll have new ball gowns and dancing slippers.”

“A fortnight,” the marchioness stated firmly, pinning Mary with her stare. “The ball will be in a fortnight.”

Mary swallowed. Two weeks. How was she to learn everything she needed to move in society—at a ball at which she would be the center of attention—in only two weeks?

The marchioness seemed to know what she was thinking, for she smiled thinly. “I suggest we continue your instructions immediately after luncheon.”



Henry watched as Mary’s face paled, her eyes on her plate. She was quite obviously worried over the lessons.

The apprehension in her face made his heart ache. He wanted to comfort her and wipe that expression from her face.

He leaned toward her and whispered, “I look forward to teaching you to dance.”

She turned to him. “I thought I was to have a dancing master?”

He shrugged. “But you’ll need to practice, yes? Who better than your fiancé?”

Her eyes narrowed at him, but at least she was no longer wearing that pinched expression. “You never fully answered my question.”

“What question?”

“What book you were looking for at Adams and Sons?”

“Ah.” He sat back as a footman refilled his wineglass. He frowned at the reminder of how close she’d come to being shot. “We were interrupted, weren’t we?”

“Yes.” Her lips twitched as she peeked up at him. “Are you trying to avoid telling me about the book you went to Adams and Sons for? I’m now convinced that it was quite scandalous.”

“Alas no,” he said. “I fear I was only on the hunt for Mr. Izaak Walton’s The Compleat Angler.”

“Truly?” She stared at him interestedly. “I had not thought such a prosaic book and hobby would catch your fancy.”

He felt his eyebrows rise. Did she think him so featherbrained? “Indeed there are a great many things that interest me, some of which might surprise you.”

“Oh?” She took a sip of wine. “Such as?”

He grinned, for she’d put him on the spot and it was entirely his own fault. Quickly he racked his brain. “I have a tremendous interest in birds.”

She looked at him skeptically. “Birds.”

He nodded with all the sincerity he was capable of. “Oh yes. Sparrows, hawks, the odd robin or titmouse. They all are completely fascinating.”

“Including pigeons?” she asked very gravely.

He looked at her, at her straight black brows and the big brown eyes regarding him so seriously, and yet with a spark of humor, and it was as if something turned over in his chest. She was playing with him, this woman. Playing on his own level with the same sort of wit he himself used.

He wanted to grin. To catch her up and swing her about.

But he’d taken a touch too long to answer her—she was staring at him with her eyebrows arched now.

“Forgive me,” he said quickly. “I was lost in thoughts of pigeons because of their utter fascination for me.”

Her lips twitched. “Naturally.”

“Indeed.” He fought to keep his expression sober. “The gray ones, the bluey-green ones, and of course the white ones.”

“Those are doves, surely?”

“No,” he said kindly. “Doves coo.”

“Don’t pigeons as well?”

“Yes, but doves are brown or gray and have a ring about their necks—unless of course they’re the white ones. Also, they roost in trees and call mournfully in the evenings so that one thinks someone is weeping.”

“Do you know,” she said thoughtfully, “I’m not sure I know the difference between pigeons and doves. I mean outside of the neck ring. They both do look awfully alike.”

“But the doves and pigeons must understand their differences, don’t you think?” He smiled at her. “After all, the dove doesn’t form a misalliance with the pigeon.”

“No,” she said, sounding troubled for some reason. “In that they are just like us, I suppose.”

“How so?”

She looked at him frankly. “Well, you would never have thought of marrying me had you not recognized me as an Angrove daughter that day in the bookstore. Had I merely been a maidservant of no name you would’ve passed me by without a second look. We humans don’t marry between classes any more than pigeons mate with doves.”

Henry opened his mouth, for he wanted to refute her.