Hero glanced up. Reading was watching her as if he knew the thoughts going through her head. She lifted her chin. “Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why this sudden worry for my person? Why do you wish this bargain?”
She expected more anger, but instead a corner of his mouth kicked up, and if possible, he slouched more in his seat. “You’re a suspicious woman, Lady Perfect. Perhaps my soft heart compels me to come to the rescue of reckless maidens.”
“Humph.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “I don’t trust you.”
“That’s quite wise,” he said, widening his eyes mockingly.
She looked out the window. What choice did she really have if she wanted to continue to visit the home?
“Very well,” she said, facing him again. “You may accompany me next time I visit St. Giles.”
“Good.” He yawned and then stood to rap on the ceiling of the carriage. “You can send a note to my house whenever you wish to go. Thirty-four Golden Square.”
For a moment she was diverted by this news. “You’re not staying at Mandeville House?”
His lips twisted. “No.”
The carriage jolted to a stop and he was out the door, pausing to turn and say, “I’ll be by your house at nine tomorrow morning.”
She leaned forward. “But I hadn’t planned on going to the home again so soon!”
“Yes, but I think I can help you with your problems with the architect,” he said slowly and patiently. “Nine sharp. Agreed?”
His green eyes pinned her, and she could only nod her head mutely.
“Good,” he said again.
He leaped from the carriage and slammed the door shut. In a minute the carriage jerked forward.
Hero released a breath as she let her body relax, and for the first time she wondered, What had Reading been doing in St. Giles?
HERO NERVOUSLY DESCENDED her front stairs the next morning. Nine of the clock was very early for Cousin Bathilda—or any other fashionable lady—to be abroad, but it would be just her luck to be caught in the company of her notorious future brother-in-law. But when she looked up and down the street, she saw no one.
No one at all.
For a moment her shoulders slumped in something perilously close to disappointment. She’d have to send back the carriage, already waiting in front. Well, he was a rake, after all. What did she expect? Morning jaunts with respectable ladies were probably not his thing at all. In fact—
“Miss me?”
The masculine murmur came so close to her back that she jumped and gave a little shriek. Hero turned to glare at Reading, who looked thoroughly disreputable and rumpled.
“Have you been out all night again?” she asked without thinking, and then had time to realize her mistake as heat crept up her neck.
He laughed as he handed her into her waiting carriage. “Of course. We rakes never sleep at night. We have far more, ah, interesting things to do in the dark hours.”
“Humph.” She lowered herself onto the cushions.
The strange thing was, even though his words irritated her immensely, she felt a flutter of excitement that he had indeed showed up for their appointment.
“You, on the other hand,” Reading continued as he sat across from her, “look fresh and well rested. A lovely morning lily, in fact.”
She eyed him suspiciously. What should’ve been a compliment sounded oddly like an insult coming from his mouth.
He smiled innocently, the curve of his wide mouth cutting deep lines into his cheeks. His jaw was stubbled darkly in contrast to the white of his wig.
“You look like you could pose for a cautionary engraving entitled ‘Dissolute,’ ” she said sweetly.
He barked with surprised laughter. “My lily has thorns, it seems.”
“Lilies don’t have thorns, and, anyway, I’m not your lily.”
“No, merely my dear future sister.”
She debated telling him—again—not to call her his sister, realized any protest on her part would probably only urge him on to more irritating behavior, and sighed, giving up the matter. “Where are we going?”
He stretched his legs between them, his boots brushing the silk of her primrose morning gown. “I have an old friend I’d like to introduce to you.”
“Why?”
“He’s an architect.”
“Really?” Hero looked at him curiously. “Where did you meet him?”
He gave her a sardonic look. “I do spend some time among respectable people now and again.”
“I didn’t—”
He waved aside her flustered apology. “I met Jonathan Templeton at Cambridge.”
“I heard you left after only a year,” she said slowly.
“You did call me feckless,” he reminded her. “But not everyone I met at university was as irresponsible as I. Jonathan’s father was a vicar with very little income. The only reason he was at Cambridge was because a friend of his family had kindly taken it upon himself to pay for Jonathan’s tuition. He repaid his friend’s kindness by studying day and night.”
She cocked her head, watching him. “And what did you study at Cambridge?”
He snorted. “Besides wenching and drink, you mean?”
This time she didn’t rise to the bait.
After a moment, he looked down at his hands, a half smile on his face. “Classical history, if you can believe it.”
“Did you enjoy it?”
He shrugged restlessly. “Not enough to stay, obviously.”
“I read Herodotus in the Greek,” she blurted.
He looked up at her. “Did you indeed? I wasn’t aware Greek was on the curriculum for fashionable debutantes these days.”
“It isn’t, of course.” Why had she told him that? “Never mind.”
She stared at her hands in her lap, wishing she could better control her words around him.
“What did you think of his description of Egypt?” he asked.
She peeked up at him to see if he was mocking her, but he seemed serious. She hesitated, then leaned forward. “I thought their burial practices perfectly hideous.”
His face relaxed and fine lines appeared at the corners of his eyes as he smiled. “But fascinating, yes? All that mucking about with myrrh and frankincense.”
She shuddered delightfully. “Do you think his report true? So many of the other things he writes about seem quite fanciful.”
“Such as Arion the harper who rode about on a dolphin’s back?”