He was not a malicious man, nor even truly selfish. Anne liked to think she had become a good judge of character over the years, certainly better than she’d been at sixteen. Lord Winstead was not going to seduce anyone who didn’t know what she was doing, and he wasn’t going to ruin or threaten or blackmail or any of those things, at least not on purpose.
If she found her life upended by this man it would not be because he’d meant to do it. It would simply happen because he fancied her and he wanted her to fancy him. And it would never occur to him that he should not allow himself to pursue her.
He was allowed to do anything else. Why not that?
“You should not have come,” she said quietly as they walked to the park, the three Pleinsworth daughters several yards ahead of them.
“I wished to see my cousins,” he replied, all innocence.
She glanced at him sideways. “Then why are you lagging behind with me?”
“Look at them,” he said, motioning with his hand. “Would you have me shove one of them into the street?”
It was true. Harriet, Elizabeth, and Frances were walking three across along the pavement, oldest to youngest, the way their mother liked for them to promenade. Anne could not believe they had chosen this day to finally follow directions.
“How is your eye?” she asked. It looked worse in the harsh light of day, almost as if the bruise was melting across the bridge of his nose. But at least now she knew what color his eyes were—light, bright blue. It was almost absurd how much she had wondered about that.
“It’s not so bad as long as I don’t touch it,” he told her. “If you would endeavor not to throw stones at my face, I would be much obliged.”
“All my plans for the afternoon,” she quipped. “Ruined. Just like that.”
He chuckled, and Anne was assaulted by memory. Not of anything specific, but of herself, and how lovely it had felt to flirt, and laugh, and bask in the regard of a gentleman.
The flirting had been lovely. But not the consequences. She was still paying for those.
“The weather is fine,” she said after a moment.
“Have we already run out of things to say?”
His voice was light and teasing, and when she turned to steal a glance at his face, he was looking straight ahead, a small, secret smile touching his lips.
“The weather is very fine,” she amended.
His smile deepened. So did hers.
“Shall we go to The Serpentine?” Harriet called out from up ahead.
“Anywhere you wish,” Daniel said indulgently.
“Rotten Row,” Anne corrected. When he looked at her with raised brows, she said, “I am still in charge of them, am I not?”
He saluted her with a nod, then called out, “Anywhere Miss Wynter wishes.”
“We’re not doing maths again?” Harriet lamented.
Lord Winstead looked at Anne with unconcealed curiosity. “Mathematics? On Rotten Row?”
“We have been studying measurement,” she informed him. “They have already measured the average length of their strides. Now they will count their steps and compute the length of the path.”
“Very nice,” he said approvingly. “And it keeps them busy and quiet as they count.”
“You have not heard them count,” Anne told him.
He turned to her with some alarm. “Don’t say they don’t know how?”
“Of course not.” She smiled; she could not help herself. He looked so ridiculous with his one surprised eye. The other was still too swollen to register much of any emotion. “Your cousins do everything with great flair,” she told him. “Even counting.”
He considered this. “So what you are saying is, in five or so years, when the Pleinsworths have taken over the Smythe-Smith quartet, I should endeavor to be far, far away?”
“I should never say such a thing,” she replied. “But I will tell you this: Frances has elected to break with tradition and has taken up the contrabassoon.”
He winced.
“Indeed.”
And then they laughed, the both of them. Together.
It was a marvelous sound.
“Oh, girls!” Anne called out, because she could not resist. “Lord Winstead is going to join you.”
“I am?”
“He is,” Anne confirmed, as the girls came trotting back. “He told me himself that he is most interested in your studies.”
“Liar,” he murmured.
She ignored the gibe, but when she allowed herself a smirky half smile, she made sure the upturned side of her mouth was facing him. “Here is what we shall do,” she said. “You shall measure the length of the path as we discussed, multiplying the number of your strides times the length.”