Today's Reading
"Beg pardon," she mumbled, sidling away, eyes downcast and fixed on his dusty boots. She couldn't look up. She thought maybe there was another child somewhere to his other side, but she dared not turn her head to check.
But then, horror of horrors... He recognized her anyway. "Selina?"
Oh blast.
She tipped her head back to meet his gaze. And then back, and back farther. The bonnet, which had been quite superb at disguising her appearance, was remarkably poor at allowing for normal social congress.
Finally she found his face.
Yes, it was Peter Kent—Stanhope, she reminded herself, he was the Duke of Stanhope now—and yes, he was grinning bemusedly down at her.
She was tall, but he was taller. His bright brown eyes were lit with warmth and the comfortable, irrepressible familiarity that had him addressing her without her proper title. His dark curls were artfully mussed—she wondered if he had his valet form them with hot tongs. His fair skin was gold-burnished from the Louisiana sun, and his lips were almost insultingly lush for a man, and—
This. This was why, in the two years since she had met him and he'd tossed her into a mud puddle, she did not think about Peter Kent.
Selina dropped into a practiced curtsy, polite but not deferential. "Your Grace. What a pleasant surprise."
Peter's grin widened. "You wouldn't say that if I'd stabbed you with Lu's rapier."
She had no idea what he was talking about, as usual. She didn't even see a rapier.
Peter turned and gestured to the slightly smaller of the two children at his side. "Come on, Freddie, hand it over before Lu steals it and skewers someone."
"I thought it was blunted," said the boy, sounding scandalized. "You said it was for practice."
"Lu could skewer someone with a spoon."
The boy—Freddie, evidently—produced what appeared to be a toy fencing foil from behind his back and handed it to Peter.
Peter's large palm practically enveloped the thing. It looked ridiculous. He turned back to Selina. "Now that the weapons are safely stowed—"
She arched an eyebrow. Stowed, was it? He more or less held the small sword aloft.
He caught her look and ignored it utterly. "Lady Selina, allow me to present to you my siblings. Lady Selina Ravenscroft, this is Miss Lucinda Nash"—he used the foil to gesture to the taller of the two children—"and Master Frederick Nash."
Master Frederick Nash gave her a polite bow.
Miss Lucinda Nash swept her flat cap from her head, setting free a tumble of shining chocolate curls, and bowed so low she was nearly prostrate on the ground. Then she stood, regarding Selina with bright, fierce green eyes, as if daring Selina to comment on her boy's garb.
Well, Selina supposed that she had no room to criticize anyone for what they were wearing this afternoon.
"Miss Nash," she said, inclining her head in greeting. "Master Nash. It's my pleasure to make your acquaintance."
"Lu," said the girl furiously. "Not Lucinda. Lu."
"Lu," whispered Freddie, looking pained. "You're not supposed to correct the duke in public—"
"Freddie, shut up, they can hear you—"
Selina bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing. God, she would have hated to be laughed at when she was that age.
"My brother Nicholas is a duke as well," she offered instead. "I assure you, I correct him in public frequently."
Lu's eyes sparked with interest.
"No, please," said Peter. "Please do not encourage her."
"And is your brother the duke this stodgy?" asked Lu, as if Peter hadn't spoken.
Stodgy? Goodness, stodgy wasn't exactly the word that came to mind when she considered Peter. Alarming, maybe. Confounding. Unsettling.
Not that she thought about him, of course.
"Yes, my brother the duke is stodgy indeed." She sent an apologetic thought in the direction of Rowland House. Nicholas wasn't precisely stodgy, but when she'd been a child, he certainly had seemed rather staid. Perhaps a bit overly aristocratic.
Stodgy, in a word.
"And is your brother the duke also so old?"
Oh mercy, how could she not laugh?
"Why yes," Selina said. "Similarly, er, decrepit."
Peter made a choked sound.
"And is your—"
...
