Free Ashlyn Macnamara by A Most Devilish Rogue Page B

the walkway. Others scribbled on sheaves of paper while their friends exchanged gossip behind their hands. Pastel-colored titmice twittering away, the entire lot of them.
    Worse, neither of his sisters was anywhere in sight.
    “There you are.” Mama’s fingers clutched George’s wrist in a surprisingly strong grip. “You can’t spend the entire week hiding. I won’t have it.”
    “Have you seen Henrietta? I require a word with her.” And more than a word. Revelstoke’s parting shot at the inn made George question whether Leach had told him the truth about not losing intentionally. If he indebted himself to Henrietta on purpose to lure her into a trap …
    Mama’s grip tightened on his sleeve. “Henrietta is occupied at the moment, and you aren’t to disturb her.”
    The insistence in Mama’s tone drew his gaze from the flocks. “Occupied how?”
    “I’d never have believed it after all this time. She’s attracted a suitor, and she doesn’t seem set on turning him away.” Mama lowered her voice to a whisper, as if speaking the truth might frighten off said suitor.
    Damn, he might have known. “That’s why I wish to speak to her. I don’t believe the gentleman in question is quite appropriate—”
    “Nonsense! Next year, she’ll be six and twenty. Between her age and her past, I was beginning to think we’d never marry her off. Best to get the job done before she puts any more notions in Catherine’s head. And as for you—”
    Her grip changed, putting a decided pressure on his wrist. She practically frog-marched him toward a group of giggling young girls. If they weren’t in company, she’d doubtless lead him by the ear like a recalcitrant schoolboy.
    One girl stood slightly apart from the others, her hands folded in a perfect display of a demure miss, while another girl made sweeping stabs at a sheaf of sketch paper with a stick of charcoal. Their friends jabbered encouragement. The lot of them looked like theystill belonged in the schoolroom. And his mother thought one of them would be a suitable match?
    “Mama, really,” he muttered.
    “I am determined,” she said out of the corner of her mouth, giving his wrist a none-too-subtle jerk. If she had him by the ear, she’d have twisted it. “Ah, here we are. Miss Abercrombie, I don’t believe you’ve met my son. George, this is Miss Theodosia Abercrombie.”
    Theodosia. Good Lord. George felt a stab of pity for the chit, being saddled with such an ungainly name.
    Miss Abercrombie looked away from her work and smiled for a fleeting moment before narrowing her eyes into a penetrating glare. The others fell silent while her gaze sketched his face from brows to cheeks to chin.
Interesting subject
, that gaze said.
    “A pleasure, I’m sure,” she murmured before ducking behind her sheaf of paper once more.
    George bowed to the sheaf. “Likewise. Now, if you’ll—”
    But Mama cut him off. “Who are your friends?”
    Clearly the artist did not intend to let herself be disturbed in the midst of such creative energy, for the furrow between her dark brows deepened, and she went on swiping at the page.
    Another girl stepped forward and dropped a curtsey. “I believe we were introduced at the Pendleton ball last Season?” Yes, Miss Prudence Wentworth of the unfortunate nose. “You’ve just met my cousin.” She nodded to the artist before rattling off a few more names. “And this is Miss Emily Marshall.”
    George stiffened.
    Mama dropped his arm. “Gracious. Would you be connected to the Earl of Redditch?”
    “He is my uncle.” The girl’s tone was frosty, as if Mama were a servant. Hardly surprising coming from a family whose head thought nothing of ruining a man.
    George studied the girl, while his mind whirled with possibilities. She stood, pale, blond, white-skinned, and white-gowned—she might as well be a ghost for all she was nearly translucent in her whiteness. Even her eyes were such a light shade of gray they faded into