Free Edith Layton by The Choice

correct another?”
    She grinned. She liked him best when he forgot he was dealing with a female and talked to her straight from his shoulder. It made her feel easy with him. Sometimes when he looked at her she could see desire lurking in the back of those beautiful eyes of his and it made her uncomfortable. Yet that wasn’t as bad as the times when she saw his expression soften, becoming tender as he gazed at her. That troubled her.
    But so did her own reaction to him these days. She genuinely liked him. It had been two weeks since their false engagement had been announced, and now she’d discovered that without being aware of it, she’d begun to enjoy their charade and looked forward to seeing him. It didn’t matter if she was going to accompany him to a party or the theater or just going for a walk with him. He made each occasion a delight. He always entertained her, whether he was talking about something they’d just seen or telling her of his travels.
    He was a good storyteller. He never told the same one twice, and never forgot to gauge her mood so he could change the subject along with her changing responses. He got a joke when he was told one, and saw more humor in everyday life than she’d ever done. And she could enjoy his company with a light heart, because he never tried to presume on their arrangement, not once since that first night when he’d kissed her. He sometimes looked as though he might…but he never did.
    Once he’d left off flattering her she’d dropped her guard against him altogether. And so it was peculiar, she thought uneasily, that after having trusted him, she began to distrust herself. She gazed at him now, socorrect in his black and white evening clothes, so attractive as he grinned back at her. She’d felt the warmth of him at her side all through the play, the clean scent of his soap and linen and self, the solid presence of him there. His personality was so vital, he could project it even when he didn’t speak.
    “You’re sure you don’t want to go for a stroll?” he asked her now, seeing how she gazed at him with a troubled expression.
    They were alone in their box. The viscount and his lady had gone out to mingle with the other theatergoers in what many of them felt was the most important part of an evening of playgoing.
    She shook her head. “No, thank you very much. The way people stare and watch my lips as if they expected me to say something they could rush out and quote to the world? Huh! I’m not such a wit as that. They make me feel like they’re trying to trap me into saying something indiscreet or scandalous.”
    “They are,” Damon said placidly. “That’s the whole point of this kind of evening out on the town.”
    “Well, I doubt that’s how it is in the clubs and gaming hells, taverns and bawd—um, I mean, the places you gentlemen frequent!”
    “Thank you,” Damon said, “for editing your views on how I spend my evenings. But you’re wrong. Gossip is king in London. It’s exactly the same in those places you almost mentioned. Not that I know them much better than you do. I’ve only been back a little more than a month and you’ve claimed half of it, you know.”
    She looked stricken. “I’m sorry, I hadn’t realized. Our fiction is really cutting into your pleasure, isn’t it?”
    “My dear Miss Giles,” Damon said, reaching out and taking her hand, “I don’t regret a minute I’ve spent with you—and no, don’t bristle. I’m not pouring the butter boat over you. I mean it. If you take it as a compliment, I’m sorry. But it’s only truth. Would you rather I lied?”
    She shook her head again. She was doing it a lot this evening, she thought, that must be why she felt so light-headed. “So. Tell me,” she said in a struggle to recover her equilibrium. “Do they chatter through plays in America as well?”
    “Oh, no,” he said serenely. But Gilly wasn’t as calm, because Damon didn’t release her hand. He absently stroked his