Guarding a Notorious Lady Read Free

right?” Rosalind blinked and stuttered, “Yes, yes, I’m fine.” Lucy nodded knowingly. “Flustered you, did he?”
    “No, no. Not at all,” Rosalind rushed out. “It’s just that I didn’t expect to see him . . . here. In London.” Her friend’s expression turned hopeful. “You know him, then?”
    “Vaguely,” Rosalind lied.
    A memory sparked in her mind. Once, in her youthful vanity, she had asked Gabriel if she could have Nicholas for a husband—as if he’d been a particularly fetching bonnet she’d seen on a fashion page. Her brother had laughed and tugged her braid, telling her “he would never do that to his friend.” She almost groaned aloud at the embarrassing memory. Brothers could be so cheeky.
    “So you don’t know him very well?” Lucy persisted, redirecting her thoughts.
    Rosalind exhaled and wobbled her head in a funny, not quite a nod, not quite a shake, manner.
    “Right,” Lucy answered slowly, drawing out the word. “Well, when you’re done finding Miss Honeywel a match, I’d like you to make me one. With him.” She sighed, staring blankly at the spot where he had last stood. “All that’s left to do is find out who he is. Lud, I hope he’s hunting for a bride.”
    “You wouldn’t want him,” Rosalind said, discomfited at the note of defensiveness in her own tone.
    “Well, I can’t imagine any woman not wanting such a fine specimen for a husband. That’s it, isn’t it?” Lucy gasped. “He’s married?”
    “No,” Rosalind muttered, feeling a bit adrift. “He’s not married. He’s a . . . he’s a farmer.” Her insides burned with shame for misleading Lucy.
    “A farmer?” Lucy muttered in disbelief. “Here, in London for the season? Business perhaps?” Rosalind nodded, her own curiosity wrecking havoc on her concentration.
    “A farmer, as in a yeoman farmer ?” Lucy whispered her question. “Or farmer as in a landowner? A gentleman farmer?” Rosalind gave a small nod. “Gentry.” With a twinge of guilt she withheld the rumor that he had a distant aristocratic relation. She had overheard Gabriel mentioning that fact late one night while at the Bill iard table at Wolverest. The men hadn’t known she’d been in the hall, her ear pressed against the closed door.
    “Is he a man of substantial funds, then?” Lucy asked, giving a frustrated sigh when Rosalind failed to answer her.
    Just what was Nicholas Kincaid doing here?
    Gabriel would know. A surge of anticipation quickened Rosalind’s pulse. She wouldn’t have to wait long to ask her brother. Gabriel had requested wait long to ask her brother. Gabriel had requested her presence in his study for a brief discussion before their guests started to arrive this evening. She suspected she was due another lecture about her meddling—er, matchmaking .
    Although it ought to be praise. Lonely Mr. Thwaites and the spinster Miss Crofton were now the happy Mr.
    and Mrs. Thwaites as of just last season. And by the looks of things, Miss Honeywel here would find herself a viscountess very soon. Rosalind itched to take another peek in their direction.
    “My Lady. Miss Meriwether,” a gentleman intoned from behind them.
    Rosalind turned to see Lord Stokes stepping past the other end of the aisle. A veteran of the marriage mart, the redheaded viscount was rather reserved, but friendly. An acquaintance of Gabriel’s, he often attended all the Devines’ parties.
    He tipped his hat, smiling at them in turn. His gaze lingered a touch longer on Lucy, which hardly went unnoticed by Rosalind.
    “Well,” Rosalind whispered in her most beseeching tone. “Whatever are you doing here talking to me, dear Lucy, when there is a highly available bachelor right here in this very establishment? I daresay, he is completely smitten with you.”
    “You think so? I rather thought he only had eyes for you.”
    “Don’t be silly,” Rosalind replied lightly.
    “Well . . . perhaps,” Lucy answered, sounding unsure.
    “Why don’t