Rivals and Revels (A Regency Romance)

In London (2 of 2)

Radcliffe lifted his head from his notes. A smile so glad and genuine flitted on his lips, that the rest of confused apologies died on hers.

"Miss Walton, what a delightful surprise to see you so soon. I didn't expect this before dinner, at the earliest." He tugged closed the collar of his shirt. It was barely loosened. "Admit it: you are thoroughly befuddled by my mother, and run off your feet."

"I... I do enjoy her company."

"Don't bother denying it. That look in your eyes is very familiar to me."

"A little." She cleared her throat. "I only came here to see where the pianoforte was, since I didn't know it was here. That is, I wanted to tune it, but since you are here, and it is here...."

"Do not worry, it is tuned." His eyes crinkled more and more as she stuttered. The joy that flickered in them seemed genuine... not in them, just in the unafflicted one. The right eye expressed nothing with its milky flatness. Her glance dropped to her shoes, as if her shoes were something special.

She took a fortifying breath in. "I should leave you to your work, Lord Chesterton."

He fumbled for his cane and climbed to his feet to belatedly greet her. The legs of his high-backed chair scraped against the floor in an awfully loud manner. It was her fault, causing poor Radcliffe such an inconvenience, and she didn't know where to look.

Pity advised her to look away, but she hated to offend him by pretending not to notice. He knew better than anyone how awkward he was, and yet he got up for her. Everywhere he went, people averted their eyes or stared with pity. She hated to do either. Pretend indifference, or pity, or curiosity, they were all wrong.

She'd look. She had to.

His nails were carefully trimmed, but ink stained his fingers. He must have written much this morning and with some haste. Dark-blue suit hugged his slight figure, tailored so well that it didn't wrinkle or fold at his awkward shoulder. His chin and lips were no different from Everett's. Particularly the lips. The same etched shape, slightly fuller than she'd expect on a man. And if she looked upon it every day, she'd be used to one blind eye and one living one. And wasn't it unfair that the arrowhead marking Everett's skin incited sighs, when—

"I beg of you, stay a minute instead," he said. "I welcome interruptions."

So did she, when her thoughts spiraled out of control. "Thank you for the wonderful gift of the artist's materials."

"But a trifle, I assure you. Did you use it well?"

"With impunity, Lord Chesterton, with impunity. I even brought one drawing with me, for I didn't have the heart to part with it."

"Oh? Please, Miss Walton, you could not say such a thing and keep it hidden. If it doesn't inconvenience you to bring it here?"

She didn't give him a chance to refer to any difficulties he might have moving around the house, particularly to the first floor. "No trouble at all."

She dipped her head, dashed across the parlour and shot upstairs swifter than any squirrel.

By the time she returned, she came no closer to deciding how to look at him. It went beyond the deformity of his face; she could take it. But some secretive message in the sparkling blue depth of his left eye, emphasized by the shallow and pale right one, brought to her mind Everett's cryptic warnings.

Beware of Radcliffe, he had said. You have neither the wit nor experience for him.

She hurried to lay her drawing on the desk for reprieve from that troubling gaze. His profile bent over it, studying the red roses in the Chinese vase. He had a very clear profile, with a straight nose, a small dip above it to the brow line and a tall, wide forehead.