Free Anne Barbour by A Dangerous Charade Page B

ladies.”
    Alison made no comment, merely wondering to herself over Meg’s demeanor this evening. The girl bad been almost febrile in her excitement, her eyes fairly blazing. Several times she had started to say something, then caught herself with a meaningful glance at Sally, whose returning look was one of sheer terror, if Alison was not very much mistaken. What was the imp up to now? Alison supposed she need not be overly concerned. Meg was well bred, and if her volatility sometimes led her into actions bordering on impropriety, they were no more than might be expected from a high-spirited young damsel who had been pampered and doted upon since birth. There was no denying she was a rare handful, but she was also well aware of the fine line between what was acceptable in a well-bred young miss and what was most definitely not. At least, she had been up till now. Aware that Lady Edith was speaking to her, Alison pushed her concern to the back of her mind.
    “Of course, my lady,” she replied mechanically. “A drive to Whitestone Abbey tomorrow sounds lovely. And I’m sure Lady Melksham and Mrs. Busey will enjoy it, too.” The estate, owned by the Dowager Countess Melksham’s son, boasted an impressive ruin, which the ladies visited periodically. “But you do not wish to tire yourself. You are invited for cards at the Dunsaneys’ tomorrow evening.”
    “Pooh,” said Lady Edith briskly. “A ride in the country is not going to tire me out.”
    It was late when the earl bade a sedate good night to the ladies in Royal Crescent. At Lady Edith’s behest, Alison accompanied him to the door.
    “Are you, too, looking forward to a drive to Whitestone Abbey, Miss Alison?” he inquired innocently.
    Disconcerted, Alison stared for a moment into his sleepy-lion eyes before replying.
    “Of—of course. It promises to be a pleasant outing.”
    “Just what I was thinking,” came the placid rejoinder, his amusement plain at Alison’s obvious discomfiture upon realizing that he would make up one of the party. Settling his hat on his head, he lifted her fingers to his lips for a casual salute. At the last moment, he turned her hand over in his and pressed a kiss on her palm. She jerked her hand away from him as though she had been burned.
    “Good night, my lord,” she whispered harshly, and whirled on her heel. The last thing she heard as she fled up the stairs was the door closing on his soft laughter.
    Now what was he up to? she wondered as she made preparations for bed. Did he think to charm her into relinquishing her place in his aunt’s home? She sniffed. Charm was certainly not the man’s forte. He could lay no claim to being a lady’s man, for he was arrogant to a fault and not particularly handsome. His clothing was of excellent quality and he wore it with great style, but he could hardly be called a top of the trees. His features were nothing out of the ordinary—if one discounted the way his eyes looked in candlelight. And, if truth be told, she assured herself, his jaw made him look pugnacious rather than handsome. In short, she concluded with some satisfaction, she was in no danger of succumbing to Lord Marchford’s feeble attempts at seduction. But as she curled her body into sleep that night, her fingers closed tightly over the place where he had dropped a kiss, and she drew her hand to her breast with an unconscious sigh.
    She found herself continuing the earl’s catalog of flaws the next afternoon during the journey to Whitestone Abbey. She was sharing the coach with Lady Edith and her particular cronies, Gertrude, Lady Melksham, and Elizabeth Busey, known as Bessie to her friends. All three ladies were of the same generation and spent many happy hours gossiping about events that belonged to the distant past; there was great delight to be had in shredding the reputations of persons who had long since passed on to their rewards.
    Alison smiled at the scurrilous tales, told with such relish, and returned