Regency Improprieties. Diane Gaston

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      He persevered. ‘He also has been known to purchase carriages for special friends.’

      ‘Yes. Special friends.’ She showed no increased interest.

      Flynn gave her a sideways glance. Most women would leap at the chance to receive this man’s regard. The advantages were inestimable. ‘He is a generous man, Rose. I can provide you many examples to prove it, if you wish.’

      She gave him an imploring look. ‘Please do not.’

      He frowned again, pretending to concentrate on the horses and the carriage path. Finally he asked, ‘What is it, Rose? Every time I mention the marquess, you put me off. Perhaps if you could explain why, I would proceed in a manner to please you.’

      Two spots of colour dotted her cheeks. ‘Oh, I have nothing against the man …’

      Flynn waited for her to say more. The horses waited, too, almost slowing to a stop. He flicked the ribbons and they moved again. The Serpentine came into view, its water glistening in the afternoon sun.

      ‘It is pretty here,’ she said after a time.

      He forgot about Tanner. Against the green of the grass, lushness of the trees and blue of the Serpentine, she looked like a Gainsborough portrait. He wished he could capture her image, frame it and hang it upon a wall to gaze at for ever.

      He closed his eyes. This was madness, coveting his employer’s intended conquest.

      He drew a breath, steeling himself again to perform his task. ‘I should like to speak for Lord Tannerton, if you will permit me.’

      Rose wiped an escaped tendril from her forehead. She’d been pretending Mr Flynn had called upon her like a suitor. A foolish notion. He merely wanted to talk of the marquess.

      The rhythmic sound of the horses’ hooves on the gravel path seemed louder while she delayed her answer. How could she explain to him that she was not wanting a marquess’s money? She was wanting what every girl wanted.

      Love.

      She set her chin firmly. ‘Later perhaps we can speak of the marquess.’

      ‘But I ought—’ he began, but clamped his mouth shut. He blew out a long breath and continued in a resigned tone. ‘What do you wish to talk about, Rose?’

      The knot inside her uncoiled. She could pretend a bit longer. ‘Oh, anything …’ She smiled at him, suddenly light hearted. ‘Things people talk about.’

      Things she longed to know about him.

      She took a breath. ‘Have … have you been in England long, Flynn?’

      It took him a moment to respond. ‘Since I was eighteen.’

      ‘And how long is that, then?’ she persisted.

      ‘Ten years.’

      She had discovered his age! Twenty-eight. ‘What brought you to England, then?’

      ‘I came to attend Oxford.’

      ‘Oxford? That is where gentlemen go, is it not? To become vicars and such?’

      He laughed. ‘Yes, and other things.’

      ‘Your family was high enough for Oxford?’

      He stiffened. ‘It was.’

      She’d offended him. ‘I should not have spoken so.’ She blinked. ‘I hope you’ll forgive me.’

      His expression softened. ‘My father is gentry, Rose, a fairly prosperous landowner. He was well able to send me to Oxford.’

      Rose relaxed again. ‘And what after Oxford?’

      ‘I came to London in search of a position. Lord Tannerton took a risk hiring me.’

      ‘You must have impressed him.’

      He gave a half-smile. ‘More like he took pity on me, I should think. But I have learned much in his employ.’

      She felt bold enough to ask more. ‘Have you been back to Ireland, then?’

      He shook his head, and the frown reappeared on his face.

      Oh, dear. She’d made him unhappy again. She cleared her throat. ‘I’ve only been in England a few months.’

      ‘And why did you come, Miss O’Keefe?’ His response sounded more automatic than curious and, oh, so formal.

      ‘The school was willing to keep me teaching. The school near Killyleagh, I mean. But I had this desire to sing, you see.’ She paused. ‘Like my mother.’

      ‘Your mother?’

      She nodded. ‘My mother sang in London in her time. She died long ago.’

      He looked at her with sympathy, pricking a pain she usually kept carefully hidden.

      She swallowed. ‘In any event, my father was working in London, so I came here.’ She glanced away. ‘He could not afford to keep me at first, but then Mr Hook hired me to sing.’ She skipped over a lot of the story, perhaps the most important parts. ‘And when I’m done singing at Vauxhall, I’ll find another place to sing.’

      ‘Where?’ he asked.

      ‘Oh, somewhere. I’m thinking there are plenty of theatres in London.’

      ‘There are theatres in Ireland as well,’ he said.

      She shrugged. ‘Not like in London. London has King’s Theatre and Drury Lane and Vauxhall nearby. Plenty of places. My mother once performed in King’s Theatre.’

      ‘That is impressive,’ he said.

      She laughed. ‘Not very impressive, really. She was in the chorus, but she did sing on the stage at King’s Theatre.’

      ‘Do you wish to sing in the King’s Theatre?’ he asked.

      She sighed. ‘I do. More than anything. It must be the most beautiful theatre in the world.’

      He smiled. ‘It is quite beautiful.’

      ‘You’ve seen it?’ She turned to him eagerly.

      ‘I’ve accompanied Lord Tannerton there on occasion.’

      ‘You have?’ She would have loved to just walk inside the building, see the boxes and the curtain and the stage. She sighed again.

      He continued to smile at her.

      She could not help but smile back at him, thinking how boyish he looked when he let his face relax.

      A carriage came in the other direction and he attended to the driving again. They lapsed into silence.

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