Free The Secret History of the Pink Carnation by Lauren Willig Page A

noticed. ‘I cannot tell you,’ Amy confessed frankly, ‘how good it is to finally have a genuinely interesting conversation with someone! Nobody at home talks about anything but sheep or embroidery. No, really, I’m not exaggerating. And whenever I come across someone who has actually done something interesting, theychange the subject and talk about the weather!’
    Amy’s face was so disgruntled that Richard had to laugh. ‘Surely you must allow the weather some consequence?’ he teased. ‘Look at the impact it has had upon us.’
    ‘Yes, but if you start talking about it, I shall have to remember something I’ve forgotten on the other side of the room or develop a passionate desire to take a nap.’
    ‘Do you think it will be fair tomorrow?’
    ‘Oh, so that’s your ploy, sir! You really want to read your journal in peace, so you’ve decided to bore me away! That’s terribly devious of you. But, if I’m not wanted…’ Amy swished her yellow skirts off her chair.
    The plan she described did rather resemble his intentions of an hour before, but, without even taking the time to think about it, Richard found himself grinning and saying, ‘Stay. I’ll give you my word not to talk about the weather if you swear you won’t mention gowns, jewels, or the latest gossip columns.’
    ‘Is that all the young ladies of your acquaintance talk about?’
    ‘With a few notable exceptions, yes.’
    Amy wondered who those notable exceptions might be. A betrothed, perhaps? ‘You should count yourself lucky, my lord. At least it’s not sheep.’
    ‘No, they just behave like them.’
    Their shared laughter rolled softly through the dim room.
    Richard leant back and regarded Amy intently. Amy’s laughter caught in her throat. Somehow, his gaze cut through the gloom, as if all the light in the dim cabin were concentrated in his eyes. Suddenly dizzy, Amy lowered her hands to the sides of her chair and held on tightly. It must be that the boat is swaying more now because of the storm, she thought vaguely. That really must be it.
    Richard contemplated Amy with puzzled pleasure. He did know other intelligent women – Henrietta, for one, and a few others of his sister’s circle, bright, intelligent women who were too pretty to be dismissed as bluestockings. He had even, of his own free will,dropped by the drawing room to join them in their conversations on one or two occasions. But he couldn’t imagine bantering so easily with any of Hen’s entourage.
    Perhaps it was the intimacy of darkness, or of the small quarters, but absurdly, he felt quite as comfortable chatting with Amy Balcourt as he ever had with Miles or Geoff. Only Miles didn’t have immense blue eyes fringed with dark lashes. And Geoff certainly didn’t possess a slender white neck with kissable indentations over the collarbones…
    At any rate, Richard concluded, the Fates had known what they were doing when they set Amy Balcourt upon his boat.
    ‘I am truly delighted to have met you, Miss Balcourt. And I promise not to talk about the weather or sheep unless it is absolutely imperative.’
    ‘In that case…’ Amy clasped her hands under her chin and launched back into her eager inquisition.
    Only once she had satisfied her curiosity on such important subjects as tombs, mummies, and curses did Amy ask, ‘But wasn’t Egypt swarming with French soldiers? How did you manage to slip in?’
    ‘I was with the French.’
    For a moment, the words just hung there. Amy frowned, trying to make sense of what he had just said. ‘Did you – were you a prisoner of war?’ she asked hesitantly.
    ‘No. I went at Bonaparte’s invitation, as one of his scholars.’
    Amy’s spine snapped upright. Head up, shoulders back, as she stared at Richard her posture locked into a steely rigidity to please even Miss Gwen. ‘You were in Bonaparte’s pay?’
    ‘Actually’ – Richard lounged back in his chair – ‘he didn’t pay me. I went at my own expense.’
    ‘You