Free Lady Incognita by Nina Coombs Pykare Page A

girls can be very badly hurt.”
    “So they can,” agreed Atherton. “Have you been so hurt?”
    His dark eyes fastened so suddenly on her own seemed to take her breath away.
    “No, no,” she stammered. “I ... I have not been hurt. I have known few men.”
    “That perhaps explains it,” said his lordship speculatively. “But is not your approach to life - the belief that no heroes exist - perhaps as detrimental to a girl as the belief that the world abounds with them? Would not a happy medium perhaps be a wiser choice?”
    “I ... I do not know.” Louisa felt all her convictions being shaken. For years she had written romances, quite set in the thought that heroes never had and never would exist. But, confronted by one in the flesh, how could she deny their existence?
    “I wish you may at least consider the possibility that heroes exist,” his lordship continued. “Unless , of course, you mean for Betsy to go off to the highest bidder.”
    “What!” Louisa drew away from him in outrage. “How dare you say such a thing! I only want Betsy to be loved and cared for.”
    “And for that she needs a husband,” added the Viscount gently. “Nor will it hurt her, in acquiring one, to have a little faith in heroes.”
    “I ... I shall think about it,” Louisa found herself saying. “Perhaps you are right.”
    Atherton bent to pick several marigolds and offer them to her. “They complement your hair,” he said with a grave smile, reaching out to touch a truant curl.
      Louisa accepted the golden flowers and sniffed their slightly bitter fragrance. “I love marigolds. They were Mama’s favorite flowers.”
    “Then I made a wise choice,” said Atherton again tucking her arm through his.
    “Have your read Lady Incognita’s latest romance?” he asked. “Love in Peril I believe it is called.”
    “Yes, I have read it,” replied Louisa.
    “As I recall,” said his lordship, gazing at the flowers in her hand, “marigolds were that heroine’s favorite flower.”
    “Yes,” murmured Louisa. “I believe they
    were.”
    “Do you not find it unusual that the heroine should have the same preference in flowers as you do?”
    Louisa shook her head, hoping that Atherton would not remember that that heroine also bore a physical resemblance to Louisa herself. But then, she assured herself quickly, there must be many young women in the world with chestnut hair and gray eyes.
    His lordship looked as though he was going to speak again, but before he did, Betsy called from the open doorway. “Lou-is-a. The lady wants to go home.”
    “Coming, Betsy.” Louisa did not know whether she was pleased or not that the Viscount would be leaving. She certainly enjoyed his company, but their conversation of the last few minutes had been rather close to an area she would prefer to avoid. She could not tell Atherton that she was Lady Incognita. Such a disclosure would, among other things, break her word to Mr. Grimstead who insisted that complete secrecy as to the author’s identity would insure higher sales. And she shuddered to think what would be his opinion of her should his lordship ever discover the truth. Women writers were considered a species apart. Surely no well-bred woman would so demean herself as to fall to such depths. And if Lady Incognita were discovered to be the daughter of a baron, what a field day the ton would have ripping her into little pieces. There would be nothing left, nothing at all.
    His lordship, hand on her elbow, guided her up the steps and down the hall to the front door, where Lady Palmerton stood waiting. Louisa watched in silence as Atherton expertly shawled his sister and accepted his beaver and gloves from Drimble.
    “You will hear from me, depend on it, my dear,” said Lady Palmerton. “We shall have all the ton talking about you.”
    Louisa was about to protest that this was not at all her wish, but a look from Atherton stopped her.
    “I shall be calling again,” he said calmly