The Demure Miss Manning. Amanda McCabeЧитать онлайн книгу.
saw again Mary Manning in his mind, her sweet smile, the gentle touch of her hand on his arm. ‘So I did. She was rather unusually intelligent. What of it?’
‘A lady like her would probably be something of a challenge.’
‘What do you mean?’ Nicholas said. He was beginning to look rather alarmed, which Sebastian was sure must be an interesting sign.
‘Miss Manning is no flirt, despite her friendship with Lady Louisa,’ Gilesworth said. ‘She has not been long back in London, due to her father’s work, but no one ever has a word of criticism for her. She is pretty, polite, calm, a fine hostess for her father. She couldn’t put a dainty slipper wrong.’
Sebastian saw where Gilesworth was going and it made him scowl. He drank down the last of his wine, letting the hazy distance of the alcohol add to his own cold numbness. ‘So, in other words, she is exactly what she should be?’
Lord James gave a snort. ‘Are any of us what we should be?’
‘Exactly,’ Gilesworth said. ‘Surely no one is perfect inside—even a quiet lady like Miss Manning. She must have a few wild thoughts running through that pretty head.’
Sebastian stared down into the ruby dregs of his glass, but he didn’t see the wine. He saw Mary Manning’s face, the way she smiled at him, so shy and trusting.
Wild thoughts in her head? Oh, how he would like to know what those were! Sebastian almost laughed to imagine Mary Manning going wild, her skirts frothing around her slender legs, her laughter ringing out like music.
And then suddenly he wasn’t laughing any longer. The thought of her breaking free, taking him by the hand and drawing him with her into the sunshine, made him feel sad—and also, strangely, hopeful.
‘All the ladies seem to talk of nothing but your heroics of late, Barrett,’ Gilesworth said. ‘Even Miss Manning seemed most fascinated by you today. If anyone could break through such cool perfection, surely it would be you.’
Sebastian shook his head. ‘My brother is the one who is interested in Miss Manning.’
Gilesworth and Lord James laughed, as Nicholas watched them, wide-eyed. ‘Your brother Lord Henry is surely not interested in anything besides his own career. He is as cool-headed as Miss Manning herself. No, I would wager if anyone could break through to the perfect Miss Manning, it would be you.’
‘A wager?’ Lord James cried. ‘Oh, marvellous. I haven’t heard an interesting wager in ages.’
Sebastian studied Gilesworth carefully. He didn’t quite trust his friend’s smile, but he found himself intrigued rather against his will. ‘I may be wickedly bored, but I do not wager on a lady’s reputation.’
Gilesworth waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. ‘No one is suggesting we ruin a lady’s fair name! Only that we provide her—and ourselves—with a bit of fun. It has been a most dull Season. Surely even Miss Manning deserves a laugh before she retreats into a blameless life as Lady Henry? If she does become Lady Henry in the end, which I doubt.’
‘Then what are you suggesting?’ Sebastian said in a hard voice.
Gilesworth leaned over the table. ‘Just this—fifty guineas says you won’t be able to steal a kiss from Miss Manning at the Duchess of Thwaite’s ball.’
‘Fifty guineas?’ Nicholas gasped.
Sebastian did not look away from Gilesworth. ‘I told you. I won’t ruin a lady’s reputation.’ Not even to break that terrible coldness around him.
Not even if he was tempted by the thought of kissing Miss Manning. And he was tempted. Far more than he cared to admit. Surely the touch of her lips, so sweet and innocent, could make him feel alive again?
‘No one would know but us, Barrett,’ Gilesworth said. ‘And Miss Manning, of course. Give her a thrilling memory. If indeed there is something of fire under her pretty ice, which I am not at all sure of.’
Sebastian sat back in his chair, turning his empty glass around in his hand. There was such a stew of feelings seething inside of him: boredom, desire, intrigue. It was the first spark of warm life he had felt in too long. And yet surely it could not be right.
Maybe he was the rake London society had proclaimed him to be after all.
‘Very well,’ he said. ‘I shall endeavour to kiss the lady just once at the duchess’s ball.’
Yet even as he shook hands with Gilesworth to make their devil’s bargain, he knew something momentous was going to happen.
Whether for good or ill, he could not say. He only knew Mary Manning had suddenly made him feel alive again.
Mary watched her reflection in the mirror as her maid put the last touches on her coiffure for the Duchess of Thwaite’s ball. Usually, she saw none of the elaborate process of braiding and pinning. There were too many other things to go over in her mind. The people her father wanted her to talk to at the party; remembering everyone’s names; organising their own dinner parties and who would require return calls and invitations later.
She knew the maids knew their jobs and trusted them to make her look presentable. She knew that she herself could always be called ‘presentable’. Pretty enough, always suitably dressed, knowledgeable enough of fashion. She had always been taught to be appropriate.
But she was certainly no stylish beauty like Lady Louisa, or like her own mother. Maria Manning, with her dark Portuguese eyes and musical laugh, had always dazzled everyone. Mary knew she didn’t have it in her power to be like that, so she did all she could otherwise. Studied, watched her manners, tried to be helpful.
But tonight she found herself peering into the looking glass as the maid twined a wreath of pink-and-white rosebuds through the braids of her glossy brown hair. She felt so unaccountably nervous tonight, almost unable to sit still. Her thoughts wouldn’t stay put on her duties for the duchess’s ball, but kept darting all around like shimmering summer butterflies. And she knew exactly why she felt so flighty tonight.
Lord Sebastian Barrett.
Just thinking his name made her want to laugh aloud. Mary found she couldn’t quite quell her confusion, that feeling of warm, bubbling anticipation mixed with the twinge of fear. Would he be there that night? She knew Lady Alnworth had said he would. The duchess’s ball was the event of the Season, and Lord Sebastian was the hero of London at the moment. Surely she would see him there.
Yet if he were there, what would she do? What if he talked to her—or didn’t talk to her? He was so very handsome, so very sought after, he could certainly have his pick of feminine company.
She remembered the way he had smiled at her in Lady Alnworth’s drawing room, the easy way they had talked together. When she was actually with him, there hadn’t been this fear. It was only now, thinking about him in the silence of her own room, that she felt so uncertain about everything. And Mary hated being unsure of what to feel, what to do.
She closed her eyes and remembered that morning, when she had gone to take the air with Lady Louisa in the Smythe carriage at the park and she had glimpsed Lord Sebastian in the distance. He had looked so distracted and solemn on his horse, dressed in dark riding clothes, and she had wanted to go to him.
Yet he had seemed somehow to want to remain unobtrusive. He did not wear his dashing regimentals and was alone at the park at a quiet hour. He seemed so distant, as if his thoughts were not on the present moment at all. She hadn’t even had the heart to point him out to Louisa.
She had been thrilled at the unexpected sight of him and had longed to call out to him, yet something about his very stillness, his solitary state, had held her back. But then he looked up and saw her, and a smile touched his face. There was only time for him to nod and tip his hat to