Page 22 of The Earl’s Hoyden

Miss Bexley’s face turned up toward him, her eyes wide. “I beg your pardon?”

“You have a lovely laugh,” he repeated.

Scarlet splotches bloomed over her cheeks and neck. “You don’t have to say that.”

“Why would I say it if it wasn’t true?”

She studied him a moment as though weighing the earnestness of his compliment. “If you are being honest, you truly are the only person in polite company to find my laugh appealing.” The corner of her lip tucked down in a self-deprecating smirk. “Ever.”

“I suppose I don’t entirely know how to operate among polite society,” he confessed. “Light conversation, banter, flattery.”

When she looked up at him again, she had a pleasant smile. Her mouth had a nice shape, wide with a full lower lip.

Without meaning to, he had created the perfect opportunity to introduce his request that she assist him in learning the subtle nuances of small talk at soirees and ballrooms.

“I see no deficiencies based on our conversation tonight.” She spoke softly to ensure their conversation remained private. “There are certain things you can do to keep the discussion flowing. And you can get away with practically anything with a well-timed wink.” She winked at him in a demonstration.

“And that is exactly why I wondered if you might consider helping me again.”

The corners of her smile seemed to wilt, or perhaps he had imagined it. After all, if she did not wish to aid him, she need only decline. Before he could gauge for certain, she focused on the path of attendees loitering before them.

Lucien steered her around a woman in a ghastly orange dress and painted red lips in an obvious attempt to warrant attention.

“You see, I am somewhat clumsy in the art of light conversation.” He winced. “You might have noticed.”

“You say what you think,” Miss Bexley replied without glancing at him. “I think it’s rather admirable.”

“Unfortunately, most do not share that opinion.”

“I must be honest with you, Lord Brightstone.” She stopped and gazed up at him with the force of her stunning blue eyes. “I am hardly the one to instruct you on matters of polite conversation. More times than not, I talk far too much and am not exactly adept at restraining my emotions. What’s more, I have failed to attract any suitors of my own. Whatever expertise you may think I possess, you would do well to realize I truly am lacking.”

It was her second mention of her inability to attract suitors, an incredulous phenomenon in his eyes.

“How is that?” He stared down at her for a long moment, taking in the flush of her cheeks, the burning conviction in her eyes. How he longed for the stiffness of her hair to be once more unbound and free as it had been when she’d broken his fence in her endeavors to rescue the barn cat.

Perhaps he had been going about this all wrong. Maybe what he needed was directly in front of him the whole time.

Bully to his mother and her unwarranted criticism. At that moment, he knew exactly what he wanted. No, not what. Who.

He wanted Miss Bexley.

She blinked up at him. “Many reasons and truly, none of it matters. I have no plans to wed.”

“Don’t you?” he asked, even as his conversation with Lord Ranford came back to him.

That lot seems to have no interest in marriage.

Miss Bexley’s pointed chin jutted out with stubborn defiance. “I don’t. I prefer not to bow to a man’s bidding and be subjected to a mother-in-law’s displeasure regularly.”

Lucien couldn’t argue with such a perfectly stated argument. Women were the property of men as surely as any manor house, and if society passed judgment, mothers could be far worse.

Most especially his own.

Still, he could not quell his rising disappointment.

He nodded slowly. “I do understand. However, it is a pity to deprive the members of the ton such vivacity and beauty.”

Miss Bexley scoffed. “And you say you need instructions on idle chatter and flattering women.”