Page 26 of Gentleman Jim

“You mistake me, Miss Honeywell. I was speaking in generalities. In truth, you’re the first lady I’ve taken driving since my arrival in London.”

Maggie’s smile dimmed. It wasn’t true, of course. How could it be? Even last night at the theater, he’d been in the company of beautiful women. “How long have you been in London, my lord?”

“A month, approximately.”

“And before that?”

He cast her a fleeting glance. “I was most recently in Italy.”

They passed through the gates of Hyde Park at a brisk trot, St. Clare’s bays exhibiting a forward-action that any connoisseur of fine horseflesh would envy.

Maggie unfurled her dainty silk parasol and tipped it back against her shoulder as she looked around. There were quite a few other carriages about, including a barouche occupied by three young matrons, and a high-perch phaeton driven by a gentleman who clearly had no idea what he was doing, but the traffic was nothing like it would be during the fashionable hour. “Why did you ask me to come at four o’clock instead of five?”

“Why did Miss Trumble respond to my note instead of you?” he retorted.

Maggie stilled, feeling a faint trembling in her stomach. “How do you know it was Miss Trumble who responded? It was signed with my initials, wasn’t it?” She waited for him to answer her, but he did not. Goaded, she said, “There’s no great mystery, I assure you. Miss Trumble often does little things to assist me if she fears I’ve overtaxed myself. She’s the best-natured creature in the world.”

St. Clare focused on calming his horses as they trotted around the young matrons’ slow-moving barouche. Once past it, he began to direct his team farther away from the rest of the afternoon traffic.

“When I invited you for a drive yesterday evening,” he said, “I was hoping you and I might have a bit of privacy. A few uninterrupted moments in which to talk to one another. It didn’t occur to me until this morning that at five o’clock, with all of the ton in attendance, privacy would be impossible. That’s why I requested that we drive at four. I hope the change in time hasn’t inconvenienced you too greatly.”

“Not at all.” Maggie expected he might say something more about Jane’s note, but he did not. With a sigh, she turned her head to view the passing scenery.

It was a beautiful sunny day with just enough breeze to rustle the branches of the trees. There were fewer carriages now. Fewer people. St. Clare was driving farther and farther away from the other inhabitants of the park.

“Where are you taking me?” she asked.

He eased his team down from a spirited trot to a brisk walk. “That little cluster of trees at the end of the avenue. It’s a distance yet.”

Maggie didn’t care for the slower pace. It only served to emphasize the prolonged silences between them and the rather erratic beating of her heart. She cast about for something to say, deciding at length that she may as well be straightforward with him. “When you were in Italy—”

“During your come out—” he said at the same time. And then, “Forgive me.”

“No, please. What were you saying about my come out?”

“Only that I’ve heard that during your come-out season you received a great many offers of marriage.”

Maggie was taken aback but saw no reason to deny it. “Yes, I suppose I did.”

“I also heard that you refused them all.”

“You seem to have heard a great deal.”

“Society will talk, Miss Honeywell. And when a subject interests me, I can be a prodigious good listener.”

“Is society still talking? My come out was nearly six years ago. I would have thought it all forgotten by now.”

“Nothing in London society is ever forgotten. The ton has the collective memory of an elephant.”

“Then I suppose there’s no use in denying it. Not that I would. There’s nothing so out of the ordinary about a young lady refusing all of the offers she receives during her first season, surely.”

“I understand there was a particular reason for your refusals. That you were, at the time, wearing the willow for another gentleman. A soldier.”

Maggie’s pulse accelerated. She ventured a glance at St. Clare. His eyes were focused on the road ahead, his jaw tense. “In a manner of speaking.”

When it became clear that she wasn’t going to expound on the subject, St. Clare asked, almost irritably, “Shall you tell me about it? Or must I call in a forfeit?”

“It means that much to you, my lord? I can’t think why. It’s ancient history.”