Free Romantic Rebel by Joan Smith

should I? I am not a mind reader.”
    “Bath is a cauldron of gossip. A man cannot hope to keep anything secret,” he said with a scowl.
    “Then a man ought not to do anything he is ashamed of.”
    He lifted his quizzing glass and examined me with one eye magnified. “Not in Bath, in any case. Nor should a lady either, Miss Nesbitt.” It seemed to be my gown he was staring at, though there was nothing amiss with it. It was not particularly revealing.
    “You look remarkably handsome in gold, though I think you could wear black to advantage as well. Not that a lady would appear at a ball in black, of course. That suggests she is in mourning.” The enlarged eye held a challenge.
    He knew. His nose poking must have led him to Milverton, or someone who knew me. I couldn’t meet his gaze. I looked at the table, and noticed we had not touched the plate of cakes, which looked quite delicious.
    Lord Paton’s hand moved into my ken. It was a lovely hand, long-fingered, elegant, with a carved emerald on one finger. He raised his hand, and I felt it touch me under the chin, lifting my head till I was forced to look at him. He was saying something with his eyes, but it was not easy to read. There was compassion there, I think, but tinged with impatience, or anger.
    “Tomorrow, at three-thirty,” he said gently, and smiled.
    The anger was for my father, then, and the stunt he had played on me. He had read my essay, and understood why I behaved with so little propriety. I felt close to Lord Paton at that moment. It was easy to forget he was a virtual stranger. When a handsome and very eligible gentleman singles out a lady of no particular significance, she does not feel him a stranger for long. She has known him for years, in her dreams.
    We talked a little more about nothing in particular. Soon Mr. Pepper and Annie came to our table, and Lord Paton left. I urged Annie to go home before the ball was over, and as she has no love for late nights, she was happy to oblige me.
    In the cab on the way up the hill she said, “Did you have a dance with Lord Paton, or just take tea with him?”
    “He joined our set. He is coming to call tomorrow afternoon, Annie.”
    “You never mean it! Did he say anything about your writing?”
    “The editors would not let him give me a review. He just writes for the magazine, he has nothing to say about choosing the subjects.”
    She gave me a coy look. “Then the friendship has nothing to do with your writing. That looks promising.”
    “Yes, it does,” I agreed, and could hardly hold in a triumphant laugh. “It was a lovely ball, was it not?”
    “Lovely. I won two shillings. I shall buy an evening purse. I saw a dandy beaded one on Milsom Street.”
    You may imagine what glorious thoughts danced in my head as I lay in bed that evening, waiting for sleep to come. I had been courted, betrothed, wedded, and taken my groom home to show off to Geoffrey within half an hour. Once this climax was accomplished, my thoughts turned to more soporific ones, viz., my novel. There was a deal of revising to be done there, turning the former villain into the hero. Most of it, I decided, could be done by a simple change of hair and eye color. My hero, Lord Havard, would switch his pate from jetty black to electrum, and his blue eyes to brown; my villain the reverse.
    What would be more difficult was to keep my creative thoughts sunk in gloom. The leaden skies would be turning to blue if I was not careful. I hoped it did not rain tomorrow, to cancel my outing. God could not be so cruel, even if he was a man. Just before I slept, I remembered I had not written in my journal. I would rectify the omission tomorrow.
     

Chapter Seven
     
    I awoke in the morning with a sense of exhilaration whose cause was not immediately apparent. Then I opened the curtains and looked out at a beaming blue sky, and remembered my prayer for just this weather. I was driving out with Lord Paton!
    The morning was given over to working