A Night Like This (Smythe-Smith Quartet #2)(32)

“Once again, you are our savior, Miss Wynter,” chimed Lady Pleinsworth. “I don’t know what we would do without you.”
“First the musicale and now this,” Lord Winstead said approvingly.
Anne glanced at him, trying to discern his motive for saying such a thing, but he had already turned his attention back to Frances.
“Perhaps we shall stage a concert while we are here,” Elizabeth suggested. “It would be great fun.”
It was hard to tell in the twilight, but Anne thought she might have seen Lord Winstead blanch. “I did not bring your viola,” she said quickly. “Nor Harriet’s violin.”
“What about—”
“And not your contrabassoon, either,” Anne said to Frances before she could even ask.
“Oh, but this is Whipple Hill,” Lady Pleinsworth said. “No Smythe-Smith home would be complete without a generous assortment of musical instruments.”
“Even a contrabassoon?” Frances asked hopefully.
Lord Winstead looked dubious, but he said, “I suppose you can look.”
“I shall! Miss Wynter, will you help me?”
“Of course,” Anne murmured. It seemed as good an enterprise as any to keep her out of the way of the family.
“With Sarah feeling so much better, you won’t have to play the pianoforte this time,” Elizabeth pointed out.
It was a good thing Lady Sarah had already entered the house, Anne thought, because she would have had to stage an elaborate relapse right then and there.
“Let us all come inside,” Lord Winstead said. “There is no need to change from your traveling clothes. Mrs. Barnaby has seen to an informal supper, of which we may all partake, Elizabeth and Frances included.”
And you, too, Miss Wynter.
He didn’t say it. He didn’t even look at her, but Anne felt the words nonetheless.
“If you will be dining en famille,” Anne said to Lady Pleinsworth, “I should be most grateful to retire to my room. I find myself weary from the journey.”
“Of course, my dear. You will need to reserve your energy for this week. I’m afraid we shall be working you to the bone. Poor Nanny.”
“Don’t you mean poor Miss Wynter?” Frances asked.
Anne smiled at her charge. Indeed.
“Never fear, Miss Wynter,” Elizabeth said. “We shall go easy on you.”
“Oh you shall, shall you?”
Elizabeth assumed an innocent mien. “I am willing to forgo all mathematics for the duration.”
Lord Winstead chuckled, then turned to Anne. “Shall I have someone show you to your room?”
“Thank you, my lord.”
“Come with me. I shall see to it.” He turned to his aunt and cousins. “The rest of you, go along to the breakfast room. Mrs. Barnaby had the footmen set up supper there, since we are so informal this evening.”
Anne had no choice but to follow him through the main hall and then to a long portrait gallery. She appeared to be at the early side of it, she thought, judging from the Elizabethan ruff on the rather portly man staring down at her. She looked about for a maid, or a footman, or whoever it was he planned to have show her to her room, but they were quite alone.
Except for two dozen Winsteads of years gone by.
She stood and clasped her hands primly in front of her. “I’m sure you wish to join your family. Perhaps a maid . . .”
“What kind of host would I be?” he asked smoothly. “Pawning you off like a piece of baggage.”
“I beg your pardon?” Anne murmured with some alarm. Surely he could not mean . . .
He smiled. Like a wolf. “I shall see you to your room myself.”
Daniel did not know what manner of devil had come over him, but Miss Wynter had looked so unbearably fetching as she squinted up at the third Earl of Winstead (too many turkey legs shared with Henry VIII, that much was clear). He’d planned to summon a maid to show her to her room, truly he had, but apparently he could not resist the delicate wrinkle of her nose.
“Lord Winstead,” she began, “surely you recognize the impropriety of such a . . . such a . . .”
“Oh, don’t worry,” he said, happy to save her from her articulation difficulties. “Your virtue is safe with me.”
“But not my reputation!”
She did have a point there.
“I shall be quick as a . . .” He paused. “Well, whatever it is that is quick and not terribly unattractive.”
She stared at him as if he’d sprouted horns. Unattractive horns.
He smiled gamely. “I shall be down to supper so quickly no one will even realize I went with you.”
“That is not the point.”
“Isn’t it? You said you were concerned for your reputation.”
“I am, but—”
“So quick,” he interrupted, putting an end to whatever manner of protest she’d been working toward. “I’d hardly have time to ravish you even if that were my intention.”
She gasped. “Lord Winstead!”
Wrong thing to say. But so terribly entertaining.
“I jest,” he said to her.
She stared at him.
“The saying of it is the jest,” he quickly explained. “Not the sentiment.”
Still, she said nothing. And then: “I think you have gone mad.”
“It is certainly a possibility,” he said agreeably. He motioned to the corridor that led to the west stairs. “Here, come this way.” He waited for a moment, then added, “It’s not as if you have a choice.”
She stiffened, and he realized that he had said something terribly wrong. Wrong because of something that had happened in her past, some other time when she had had no choices.