Denis sipped his wine and contemplated his next move. Was it too soon to make any overt declaration?
"The ribbons of your gown are exactly the color of your eyes," he said, smiling. "How clever of you to choose them."
"Oh, I didn't," Chloe responded with a small moue of annoyance. "Sir Hugo and Lady Smallwood make all the decisions about my wardrobe. I consider it thoroughly interfering of them. However.."
Her eyes danced. "Neither of them would choose what's in the parcel, which will make it all the more amusing to dress in such fashion. It was a brilliant idea, Denis."
He bowed modestly. "I own I can't wait to see you in britches, Chloe."
Chloe felt suddenly uncomfortable. He'd said something similar last night, but it had sounded different then, more jesting. The tone and the words this morning felt like the kind of thing she could imagine a man saying to a lightskirt… a bit of muslin, she thought they were called. And there was something faintly predatory about his eyes that made her uneasy.
Denis recognized his mistake immediately. It was appropriate to crypt games, and Jasper had warned him that he must be subtle. The time for unsubtlety would come soon enough, when he'd receive his reward. "Forgive me," he said, extending his hand. "What a shockingly improper thing to say, Chloe… but I do find you most… well… I don't know how to say it. But you're not like other girls… you're so much easier to talk to."
"Let's talk of something else," she said, accepting his hand and the apology with relief.
He was regaling her with a wicked on-dit that amused her mightily, when Hugo entered the library. He was in riding dress, his top boots dusty, and a wash of unfocused irritation flooded him as he saw who was causing Chloe's laughter to fill the library.
"Oh, Hugo, Denis has been telling me the most scandalous story about Margery Featherstone," she said, turning her laughing countenance toward him, for a moment forgetting their estrangement. "Apparently, she-"
"I believe I've heard it," Hugo broke in, going to the sideboard. "DeLacy, may I refill your glass?" He offered the decanter.
There was a coolness to his voice that while far from impolite was also far from encouraging. The younger man declined the offer and took his leave within a few minutes. Chloe gave him her hand again, a gesture not lost on Hugo any more than he missed the impishly conspiratorial glance she accorded her guest as she bade him farewell.
The little fox was up to her tricks again, he thought uneasily. Why the hell did she have to play them with Brian DeLacy's son?
"What are you up to, lass?" he demanded without preamble.
"Nothing," Chloe denied, careful to avoid looking toward the parcel of clothes in the corner of the sofa. "Why were you so unfriendly to Denis?"
"Was I?" He shrugged. "I didn't intend to be. But neither do I consider it right for you to be entertaining a young man alone."
"Oh, stuff! The door was open," she said. "There was nothing improper about it. We were in full view of anyone crossing the hall. Anyway," she added with a hint of truculence, "how am I to find a husband if I never have the chance to engage in private conversation with likely prospects?"
Hugo hid his dismay. Was Chloe that drawn to young DeLacy? "Far be it from me to impede such a worthy aim, lass," he said amiably. "I hadn't realized your partiality for DeLacy was quite that serious."
"I find him more intelligent than most," she declared.
"Ah, but will he be sufficiently complaisant?" Hugo inquired, perching on the corner of the big desk, swinging one booted foot as he examined his ward with an amused eye that disguised his uneasy speculations.
"He'll have to be," Chloe said smartly. "Since I have no intention of marrying anyone who won't permit me to have control over my fortune."
"Then I suspect, my dear girl, that you'll have to settle for a stupid husband," Hugo said. "Because I don't see an intelligent man willingly accepting the role of hagridden husband."
"But I would not hag-ride… or whatever the word is," Chloe protested indignantly. "That's most unjust, Hugo. When have I ever hag-ridden you?"
"Never… and don't expect to," he said, and changed the subject. "How's the mother?"
"Mrs. Herridge manages her better than I do," Chloe said. "I don't seem to speak the right language."
"That's hardly surprising," he said gently.
"No, I suppose not." She shrugged. "So long as someone can persuade her to feed the babe, then it doesn't matter."
Casually, she wandered over to the sofa and sat down in the corner, hiding the parcel as she wondered how to remove it from the library under Hugo's eye? She couldn't leave it there alone with him either, he would be bound to notice it.
"I think I'll stay at home tonight," she said, pleating the lace of her sleeve. "Lady Smallwood will be glad of the company."
"I'm sure she will," he agreed, smiling. "Making amends, lass?"
It was as good an excuse as any. She raised her eyes and returned his smile slightly consciously. "I thought perhaps I should."
"I applaud the self-sacrifice," he said. "Would you like me to make a third?"
"No." Chloe shook her head. "I am determined to do penance and will play backgammon all evening. Besides, Mrs. Herridge needs some time to herself and I can hold the fort for the evening. You're very dusty… shouldn't you change your boots before nuncheon?"
"Should I?" Hugo regarded his boots with a quizzical frown. "I've not come across a household where riding clothes were forbidden at any table but the dinner table. Do I offend you, my ward?"
"Not exactly," she said. "But judging from the rather pungent odor in the room, I suspect you have more than dust on your boots."
"I don't smell anything. However…" He left his perch on the desk. "I'd hate to offend that pretty little nose." He pinched it lightly as he passed… a carelessly affectionate guardian's gesture with no hint of a lover's fierce desire.
Chapter 22
The clothes did not make her look like a boy, Chloe decided, examining herself in the mirror late that night. Nankeen trousers buttoned onto a white lawn shirt with a frilled collar. A short fitted jacket with a double row of buttons marching from the shoulder to the waist went over the shirt. Denis had even provided white stockings and a pair of flat black shoes. The shoes needed to be stuffed with paper in the toes, but apart from that ever/thing fitted very well… or at least, it seemed to. But something wasn't quite as it should be.
She frowned, turning this way and that in front of the mirror in the quiet house. Dante lay watching her through one eye while Falstaff cackled softly on his perch. The fitted jacket seemed to accentuate the swell of her breasts rather than disguise them, and her hips and backside in the trousers were much more noticeable than in skirts.
In fact, she decided, the whole effect was grossly improper. Lady Smallwood would probably fall into a dead faint from which she'd never recover, and Hugo… well, she'd discover Hugo's reaction soon enough She crammed the black velvet cap on her head, pulling the brim down over her forehead. It didn't seem to make much difference to the overall impression.
The clock on the mantelpiece struck two, and she went to the door, opening it quietly. Dante whined but was now accustomed to being left behind for long periods of the night and merely sighed and curled up into a tight ball when she slipped out into the dark corridor.
Hugo was still out and Samuel would be waiting up for him in the kitchen as usual. So long as Hugo didn't return in the next five minutes, the plan would work. She sped down the stairs, across the hall, and pushed through the swing door into the kitchen.
"Samuel, I'm going out with some friends," she said cheerfully. "Tell Hugo not to worry."
"Wh-wh-what the 'ell…?" Samuel woke from his doze with a start and blinked at the apparition half in and half out of the doorway. "What's that you say?"