The Swordmaster's Mistress: Dangerous Deceptions Book Two(83)
Most men wanted one thing, and one thing only. Power. They wanted money and sex too, but those were so intimately tied up with power in the male psyche it was hard to separate them, as far as she could see. Step Papa was a notable exception, a man of honour and decency. Toby, when he grew up a trifle, would be one too, she earnestly hoped.
The waltz came to an end, couples bowed and curtseyed, the floor emptied and the volume of chatter rose.
‘That’s pretty harsh, Sophie.’ Toby straightened up and tugged down his waistcoat, the picture of wounded male feelings. ‘Not all of us are rakes or fortune hunters, you know. Some of us have the purest of intentions.’
‘Your intentions, my darling Toby, are very pure and very obvious – to stay as far from Parson’s Mousetrap as you can get.’ He grinned and settled back at the rail with her. ‘You run screaming if a respectable young lady comes within five yards of you.’
‘They scare the daylights out of me,’ he admitted with a shudder. ‘They are all done up like the prettiest of presents just begging to be unwrapped. I’m no saint, I’m tempted. But you know you mustn’t so much as tug on a ribbon or you’ll have compromised the chit and be leg-shackled before you can blink. And even at a respectable distance they giggle and blush and look at a fellow with those great big eyes and I haven’t a clue what to say to them.’
‘You have no trouble talking to me.’ Sophie tweaked her amber silk skirts and batted her eyelashes at him. Blushing to order was beyond her and she certainly was not going to giggle, not even to tease Toby.
He grinned and bumped elbows. ‘I’ve known you ever since you pushed me in the duck pond aged six and you don’t expect me to come the pretty with you, Soph.’ She could feel his eyes on her. He was about to say something typically tactless. ‘But what about you? You’re twenty five.’ He flinched as she glared at him. ‘Twenty four, then. You’ll be on the shelf if you don’t start doing some flirting yourself.’
‘When I am good and ready. I have a system intended to save me making an idiot of myself with giggles and blushes. And it weeds out the rakes and the fortune hunters for me. I call it WWIGG.’
‘Whig? You’re taking an interest in politics? Are you set on not marrying a Tory, then?’ Toby swivelled round to face her and, as always when faced with Sir Tobias Greenwich’s earnest bafflement, she smiled.
‘No, not the political party. It is an mnemonic to help me remember all the important characteristics of the ideal husband. W, W, I, G and G. I think about it if I find myself falling for someone with broad shoulders but no brains, or an indecent amount of charm but dubious antecedents. W and W stand for – ’
‘Weasely? Wobbly? Weak-minded? There’s Dunsford and Pilling, they’d fit all of those, especially when Dunsford’s forgotten his corset.’
‘Idiot. Well-bred and well-endowed.’
‘Well-endowed? You brazen hussy, you.’ Toby’s grin was positively evil.
‘Well-off, I mean. It’s the same thing isn’t it?’ He was smirking. ‘What is so amusing about well-endowed?’ She had better find out, it was probably something that no-one told young ladies.
‘Er, well…’ Toby had gone red now. Definitely something risqué then. ‘You know.’ He made a sweeping gesture at the front of his black silk evening breeches. ‘In the trouser department.’
‘What?’
‘Wedding tackle. Large. As in well-hung.’
‘Wedding – ? Toby, honestly, of all the expressions! And how is a lady supposed to judge that, might I enquire?’ She came over hot and cold just thinking about it. And impossible, surely, without careful inspection and that was out of the question. She hadn’t even had a good look when Jonathan… Stop it.
‘You can’t. I mean, breeches are pretty tight these days, but it doesn’t follow that what it’s like at rest is the same as when a fellow is…’ His brain appeared to catch up with his tongue and he went red. ‘Oh, hell, Sophie, stop asking questions a gentleman can’t possibly answer. This paragon has got to be rich and well-bred. What else?’
‘I for intelligent.’ She would ponder on the issue of well-endowed males later in the privacy of her own bed chamber.
‘That rules me out.’ Toby was unashamedly not bookish.
‘So does well-off.’ He had just inherited a very modest estate. ‘Anyway, we don’t want to get married to each other so it is academic. G for good-looking and also good-humoured, as in having a sense of humour, not being some blustering buffoon.’
‘You don’t want much, Sophie,’ Toby observed. ‘Virtually every man you will encounter socially is well-bred, but as for the rest of the list, it’s a tall order to find them all in the same package.’
‘I know, but it is very handy. I find myself becoming interested in a handsome face, or a witty or intelligent conversationalist and then I apply WWIGG and can cross the gentleman off because he doesn’t meet all five criteria.’ And even if he did, she would have to add the secret requirements – U for Understanding and F for Forgiving.
She thought she might have found the ideal candidate – pleasant, good-looking, a duke’s grandson, intelligent company – but he seemed no more eager to advance the matter than she did. Love she did not expect or need – friendship and reliability were what were important – but some enthusiasm would be welcome.