"I never alter my opinion when it comes to things of this nature."
He blinked at her uncertainly. "In questions of marriage," she clarified. Then she patted the seat next to her. "You must tell your mama that you actually wish to marry Miss Hazeleigh."
Alarm filled his dull blue eyes. "But I don't! I wish to marry you." All the same, he stumbled off his knees— all that weight around his middle must have been putting terrific pressure on them—and sank into the seat beside her.
"You do not wish to marry me," Gillian said calmly. "Your mother told you to marry me. You wish to marry Lettice Hazeleigh. And I think there is"—she paused for a moment—"a reasonable chance that she might return your affections."
"Oh, but I couldn't—I mean, I don't wish—"
"I recognize that her lack of dowry may be seen in some quarters as a problem. But you, Mr. Wintersall, do not seem to me a man whose soul is engaged in such material pursuits."
He gaped at her.
"While one naturally has confidence in the opinion of one's mother," she explained, "one does not wish to follow her lead in all things. In pursuit of the woman you love," Gillian said meditatively, "I can see that you, Mr. Wintersall, would be completely unlike all the silly men of the ton. No, you strike me as a man who would be primitive, direct, and deadly in your pursuit of the woman of your heart!"
Mr. Wintersall snapped his mouth shut. Gillian congratulated herself on the effectiveness of that particular line. Luckily, lines of dialogue were somewhat interchangeable.
"Tell your mama that you intend to marry Lettice," Gillian said.
Mr. Wintersall frowned.
"A man of your quality does not allow his mama to choose his wife."
"But my mama doesn't wish me to marry you," Mr. Wintersall blurted out. "She was of the opinion that you were long in the tooth and difficult to bring to the bridle."
Gillian recoiled for a second and then nodded. "She was right."
"I—I would like to marry you anyway," Mr. Winter-sail said. He toppled off the sofa again and pressed his lips to Gillian's hand, painstakingly, moving his mouth up approximately two inches with each kiss.
At this rate, Gillian thought, he will reach my elbow by next Tuesday. Apparently it was wishful thinking when she decided that Mr. Wintersall had formed an attraction for Lettice. Lettice needed a husband, and Mr. Wintersall would have been just right for her.
He was reaching the edge of her glove and might actually touch her skin, so Gillian withdrew her hand. "Mr. Wintersall," she said, coming to her feet in a brisk movement, "I must make my regrets. I have an important appointment, and I can give you no further audience." She made up her mind on the moment. "Tomorrow morning my mother and I are leaving to attend a house party. You see, the Duke of Holbrook has requested my assistance in opening his private theater."
Mr. Wintersall's eyes narrowed slightly. "My mother feels that private theatricals are rather risque, nay, even rash for a young lady."
Gillian thought about smiling and decided not to make the effort. "Your mother is slightly out-of-date," she said. "Everyone from Lady Hardwicke to the Duchess of Bedford are engaging in private theatricals these days. Why, before she died the Duchess of Hoi-brook herself was passionately interested in the theater. By all accounts, the theater at Holbrook Court is modeled on that of the Duchess of Marlborough, and you know hers is declared the most elegant outside London." Until this moment, Gillian had thought to reject the Duke of Holbrook's invitation, but she was feeling more interested by the second.
"If we were married," William pointed out, "no one would gainsay your interest in theatricals. No Mrs. Win-tersall's virtue has ever been questioned." His chest swelled with pride.
Gillian thought of the sour, virtuous face of his mother and agreed.
William bounded to his feet with an ungainly enthusiasm. "You haven't given me time to argue my case!"
"There is no need to tax yourself. I—"
"Surely no theater can compete with my feeling for you." William enveloped her so suddenly that she didn't see it coming. His lips pushed down on hers, and she was pulled against a body that felt as softly rounded as her own. But strong.
"Mmmmfff!" Gillian said, struggling to free her mouth.
"Miss Pythian-Adams!" William said, panting a little as she managed to pull her head away. "You are right about me! Primitive and direct is precisely what I am!"
And before she could move, he pulled her against his body again. In the resulting fracas, Gillian inadvertently opened her mouth to scream at him, which led to some nauseating intimacies that incited her to violence.
"Ouch!" William shrieked, his voice rising to a level that belied his dark, primitive directness. "You—you kicked me."
Gillian caught up the bodice of her gown. "Whereas you mauled me." She was so angry that she couldn't even speak clearly. "You—you impertinent buffoon!"
Mr. .Wintersall's eyes narrowed. "There is no call for discourtesy between us."
"If you don't label your attack on my person discourtesy," Gillian snapped, "then you are precisely as caper-witted as you appear."
"My mother didn't just say that you would be hard to bridle!" William said. His face had turned so red that it matched the upholstery. "She said that your profile was undistinguished and your chin showed a sad lack of principle. She expressed grave misgivings about your character, given your evident addiction to theatricals."
Gillian's eyes narrowed. "Oh, so Mrs. Wintersall—"
He interrupted, naturally. "Obviously, your addiction to the stage shows a sad unsteadiness. One must wonder what other foolish notions you may be cherishing."
"If it is foolish not to wish to marry a man of your impoverished intelligence, then I am, indeed, foolish!"
"I am sorry to confirm, Miss Pythian-Adams, that I have come to agree with my mother," William said.
Gillian dropped the slightest of curtsies. "I shall be most—"
"No one in my household had the slightest hesitation as to why Lord Maitland was so eager to terminate your engagement that he fled to an impudent marriage. I braved the tide defending you, Miss Pythian-Adams. Indeed I did!"
"To speak ill of the dead is the mark of a particularly ill-bred person," Gillian snapped.
Mr. Wintersall pulled his heavily embroidered vest over his stomach. "In fact, I was merely applauding Lord Maitland's intelligence and forethought."
Touche.
Gillian chose the coward's way out and slammed the door behind her.
Chapter 5
In Which Imogen Meets a Man Unsuitable for Marriage… if Eminently Suitable
for Other Pursuits
Griselda and Imogen arrived at Holbrook Court late on a Thursday evening, after supper. After one look at them, Rafe's butler, Brinkley, began murmuring about fires, baths, and toddies, and two minutes later Imogen was walking into the so-called Queen's Bedchamber.
There was no call for Imogen to feel a rush of nostalgia on entering the room. It wasn't the same bedchamber in which she'd stayed when the four Essex sisters first arrived from Scotland. She wasn't sleeping in it the night that she first met Draven Maitland on English soil, nor yet did she elope from this house. Instead, she had ridden a matter of three miles to the west, deliberately fallen off her horse and in so doing, sprained her ankle, and then spent one night in the Maitland household before she and Draven eloped.