“And I did send you a note,” she added. She stood aside, motioning for him to come in. “Recent behavior notwithstanding,” she continued, “you do seem to possess manners enough not to refuse a direct written request from a lady.”
“Er…yes,” he said. It was all he could seem to think of, faced as he was by the whirlwind of energy and activity standing across from him.
Why wasn’t she angry with him? Wasn’t she supposed to be angry?
“We need to talk,” Hyacinth said.
“Of course,” he murmured. “I must apologize—”
“Not about that,” she said dismissively, “although…” She looked up, her expression somewhere between thoughtful and peeved. “You certainly should apologize.”
“Yes, of course, I—”
“But that’s not why I summoned you,” she cut in.
If it had been polite, he would have crossed his arms. “Do you wish for me to apologize or not?”
Hyacinth glanced up and down the hall, placing one finger to her lips with a soft, “Shhh.”
“Have I suddenly been transported into a volume of Miss Butterworth and the Mad Baron?” Gareth wondered aloud.
Hyacinth scowled at him, a look that he was coming to realize was quintessentially her. It was a frown, yes, but with a hint—no, make that three hints—of impatience. It was the look of a woman who had spent her life waiting for people to keep up with her.
“In here,” she said, motioning toward an open doorway.
“As you wish, my lady,” he murmured. Far be it for him to complain about not having to apologize.
He followed her into what turned out to be a drawing room, tastefully decorated in shades of rose and cream. It was very delicate and very feminine, and Gareth half wondered if it had been designed for the sole purpose of making men feel overlarge and ill at ease.
Hyacinth waved him over to a sitting area, so he went, watching her curiously as she carefully maneuvered the door until it was shut most of the way. Gareth eyed the four-inch opening with amusement. Funny how such a small space could mean the difference between propriety and disaster.
“I don’t want to be overheard,” Hyacinth said.
Gareth just lifted his brows in question, waiting for her to seat herself on the sofa. When he was satisfied that she wasn’t going to jump up and check behind the drapes for an eavesdropper, he sat in a Hepplewhite armchair that was catercorner to the sofa.
“I need to tell you about the diary,” she said, her eyes alight with excitement.
He blinked with surprise. “You’re not going to return it, then?”
“Of course not. You don’t think I—” She stopped, and he noticed that her fingers were twisting spirals in the soft green fabric of her skirt. For some reason this pleased him. He was rather relieved that she was not furious with him for kissing her—like any man, he’d go to great lengths to avoid any sort of hysterical feminine scene. But at the same time, he didn’t wish for her to be completely unaffected.
Good God, he was a better kisser than that.
“I should return the diary,” she said, sounding rather like herself again. “Truly, I should force you to find someone else to translate it. You deserve no less.”
“Absolutely,” he demurred.
She gave him a look, saying that she didn’t appreciate such perfunctory agreement. “However,” she said, as only she could say it.
Gareth leaned forward. It seemed expected.
“However,” she said again, “I rather like reading your grandmother’s diary, and I see no reason to deprive myself of an enjoyable challenge simply because you have behaved recklessly.”
Gareth held silent, since his last attempt at agreement had been so ill received. It soon became apparent, however, that this time he was expected to make a comment, so he quickly chimed in with, “Of course not.”
Hyacinth nodded approvingly, then added, “And besides”—and here she leaned forward, her bright blue eyes sparkling with excitement—“it just got interesting.”
Something turned over in Gareth’s stomach. Had Hyacinth discovered the secret of his birth? It hadn’t even occurred to him that Isabella might have known the truth; she’d had very little contact with her son, after all, and rarely visited.