The Bolingbroke Chit: A Regency Romance Read Online Free

gaze.
    Perhaps my gaze isn’t withering enough.
    With that thought came another, and she said sternly, “You cannot knock over an eye. You can poke it or blind it, but you cannot knock it over as if it were a chair or a small child.”
    As far as famous Lady Agatha conversation-ending ripostes went, it was hardly up to her usual standards, but it gave the gentleman enough pause to halt his rambling monologue.
    He tilted his head to the side, then conceded with a nod. “You are correct,” he said. “Of course you are. The number of abuses one can afflict on the eye are limited and do not extend much beyond pokes and blindings. I suppose you can roll an eye, but a roll is not a knock, and regardless, it can be done only by oneself. I beg your pardon for not choosing my words more carefully, but I’m afraid I always get a bit beside myself when discussing topcoat ornamentation. I hope you can forgive the excess.”
    His expression was entirely sincere—he even managed to draw his eyebrows together in a show of contrition—but Agatha could not suppress the feeling that he was making fun of her. Nobody apologized so effusively for what was merely a turn of speech.
    Determined to end the conversation once and for all, she said, “No, I cannot.” The brusque refusal of an apology was one of Lady Agony’s most reliable tactics: The rudeness was so abrupt and unexpected, the apologist either retreated in stunned silence or stood mutely while Agatha walked away.
    Not this gentleman. No, this dandy with the expertly tailored topcoat and the excessively sincere apology simply laughed and said, “Right you are. It was an unforgivable offense.”
    Now he was mocking her outright!
    If there was one thing Lady Agatha Bolingbroke did not know how to be, it was a figure of fun, and she stood there, teetering between anger and embarrassment, unsure which emotion she felt more strongly.
    Anger, she thought decisively, as the hot flush of embarrassment washed over her cheeks.
    The moment clearly called for a scathing insult, something caustic and biting that would send him scurrying back to his dressing room, where he belonged. But she saw the amusement on his face and realized he didn’t have the gravity of mind to take anything seriously, let alone recognize when an insult had been heaped on his head. He was a fop, a frippery fellow with his mind firmly planted in his wardrobe, and nothing she could say would give her the upper hand.
    Lady Agatha dearly treasured having the upper hand.
    Even if she couldn’t put him in his place with an acerbic retort, she could at least make her displeasure known. She was, after all, the daughter of an esteemed peer and the guest of the Duchess of Trent. Surely, she deserved better treatment than to be laughed at by a cavalier coxcomb with more hair than wit.
    Protesting, however, would only earn her another overly effusive apology.
    Before she could decide on a response, the gentleman took her hand in his own and raised it to his lips for the briefest of kisses. “My dear Lady Agatha,” he said gravely, “it has been a pleasure.”
    Astonished by the blatancy of the lie, for nobody had ever uttered anything remotely similar to her, she exclaimed, “No, it hasn’t.”
    Once again, he laughed, his deep, rich baritone ringing with pure humor, and Agatha found herself oddly struck by the warmth in his bright brown eyes. She ordered herself to turn away but could not.
    “You’re right,” he agreed easily. “It’s been dreadfully dull and you should apologize for forcing me to endure such an unpleasant experience.”
    His playful tone stunned her—nobody teased Lady Agony!—and she stared in silent amazement as he stepped past her to pay his respects to her mother. He inquired after Lady Bolingbroke’s health and asked a series of questions about her fondness for Shakespeare, after which he had an equally sensible conversation with Miss Harlow. He responded to her questions with perfectly