Miss Lindel's Love by Cynthia Bailey Pratt Page B

of being forced to listen to one woman for the rest of his life had held him back even when attracted. He preferred women like Flora Armitage. She wanted no more of his tenderer emotions than he wanted of hers. Desire was no substitute for love, he supposed, but for lack of anything better it would do.
    He became aware that several men he knew were looking at him. He nodded in greeting and they came over to stand or lounge about him. After a little talk about horses, the latest word in gambling hells, and bets on the books, Gregory Haveson chuckled. “Maybe it won’t be so long before your name is written in White’s betting book, eh, Danesby?”
    “My name? Why should it be?” Had someone found out what Chavez was bringing him?
    Despite his friend Russell’s digging his elbow into his side, Haveson went on. “Matrimony, don’t you know. What is her name, by the way?”
    “You’d know better than I,” Kenton said slowly. He finished the last drops of his wine. Was this what came of dancing with a girl?
    “Oh, come. You can tell me. Besides, isn’t she with that Paladin woman? I can’t imagine she’d refuse to give me an introduction even if I didn’t care for that dry, cold daughter of hers.”
    Though Haveson was the taller, he stepped back when Kenton rose to his feet. Holding the younger man’s eyes, Kenton waited until Haveson’s smile faltered and became uncertain. “It seems that courtesy has fallen off a bit in society of late. When I was young, it was not done for a man to bandy a lady’s name in a card room or, indeed, anywhere. Break yourself of the habit, Mr. Haveson. I advise you most strongly to break that habit.”
    Kenton put down both pieces of his wineglass, the stem snapped in two. As he went out, he knew, from the sudden rush of whispering, that the full tale of his youth was being told. He’d met his man twice at Barn Elms, once with pistols, once with swords. He’d never killed, deloping the first time, and toying with his foe the second time. With every touch, his enemy had known that it was only Kenton’s mercy that had saved him from death. At the time, he’d thought himself a devil of a fellow. Now, he could only feel profoundly grateful that he’d never been arrested. Still, his reputation should serve to keep popinjays like Haveson quiet.
    But no power on earth could silence the tongues of women. He couldn’t be certain they were discussing Miss Lindel and himself as they would stop talking as he passed and begin again the moment they felt he was out of earshot. Though he did not blush, his ears burned like Bengal fire signal lights on a man-of-war.
    He danced with several other girls, hoping perhaps to conceal his attention to Miss Lindel as just one duty dance among others. As he had begun to suspect, not even the most famously vibrant young lady had quite Miss Lindel’s sparkle. This one might be gay, that one serious-minded, this one accomplished, and that one piquantly beautiful, but none had her precise, though hard-to-define, quality. Of course, he thought fairly, it was difficult to plumb the depths of a girl’s soul while contra-dancing.
    Kenton excused himself to his hostess, who looked knowing but made no references, and went home. He chose not to drive but to walk, finding the rain-glistening streets a cooling antidote to the hot, noisy ballroom, though London could never claim to be quiet. The noise seemed far away tonight, muffled by the hovering clouds. Yet the clopping of hooves seemed to be right behind him even after he’d walked for some time. Kenton stopped and glanced behind him.
    A closed carriage, shiny black, drove behind him. When he looked back, the window slid down and a round female arm, clad in a tight-fitting glove appeared. He felt he recognized the bracelet that clasped that wrist. The gloved hand beckoned.
    “How may I serve you, Mrs. Armitage,” he asked, when he reached the window.
    “It’s too wet a night to walk. May I drive you