Sylvia Andrew - An Unreasonable Match

Hester groaned inwardly. Fate was always against her on such occasions. It was inevitable that out of all the gentlemen in society she should meet this one, just when she least wanted to. She summoned up her courage. “Lord Dungarran!” she exclaimed. “How…how…pleasant to meet you again!”

Surprise, a fleeting expression of resignation, and then a faint hint of reproof—Hester saw all of these cross Dungarran’s face before he resumed his normal calm.

“Miss Perceval. What an unexpected pleasure!”

The words were conventional, and were not supported by any warmth in his voice. Hester’s eyes dropped. He must not be allowed to see the panic into which Lowell’s revelations had thrown her. Not this man.

“Thank you for coming once again to my rescue, sir,” she said stiffly and held out her hand for the parcel.

He smiled briefly, but did not hand it over. “At least it isn’t wet.” His eyes surveyed the street. “But…are you once again in need of an escort, Miss Perceval?”

“Not in the slightest. I am making for Berkeley Square. It isn’t far.”

“All the same,” he said decidedly, “I will accompany you.” He offered her his arm.

“It really isn’t necessary, Lord Dungarran. If you will give me my parcel I am perfectly able to walk the few yards to the square.”

He frowned. “Miss Perceval, I have no wish to force my company on you, believe me. But you may be assured that if your parents or Hugo knew that you were walking the streets of London without a maid or footman they would be as…surprised as I am. It is bad enough in Northampton. In London it is unheard of. Come!” He presented his arm again.

The colour rose in Hester’s cheeks. There was so much she wanted to say, none of it polite. So she remained silent, her eyes fixed anxiously on the parcel which he still carried in his other hand. She was faintly surprised not to see signs of scorching on its wrappings. As they walked along Curzon Street he held it out and said, “What is it this time, Miss Perceval? Not muslin or satin—it is too hard for that. Or should I not ask? It feels like a book.”

Hester swallowed and tried to smile. “It…it is a book. Lowell has lent me a book of…of…poetry. B—ballads.”

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