Lady Whistledown Strikes Back by Julia Quinn Read Free Book Online Page A

he grunted, in that way that men did when they knew a woman was right but had no intention of admitting it.
    She’d grown up with two brothers, however, and knew
better than to push, so instead she said, “You were magnificent when
you defended Miss Martin.”
    His hand tightened around hers, but sadly, only for a second. “Anyone would have defended her,” he said.
    “No,” she said slowly. “I don’t think so. I’d say the opposite, actually, and I believe you know I’m right.”
    She looked up at him, her eyes defiant, waiting for him to contradict her.
    Smart man that he was, he didn’t.
    “A gentleman should never wreak havoc with a
woman’s reputation,” he said stiffly, and she realized with a strange
little bubble of delight that she loved that little hint of stodginess,
loved that he was actually embarrassed by his own strict code of ethics.
    Or maybe it wasn’t the code as much as the fact that she had caught him in it.
    It was much more fashionable to be an unfeeling rake, but Peter could never be that cruel.
    “A woman shouldn’t wreak havoc with a gentleman’s
reputation, either,” Tillie said softly. “I’m sorry about what Lady
Whistledown wrote. It wasn’t well done of her.”
    “And do you have the ear of our esteemed gossip columnist?”
    “Of course not, but I do approve of her words more often than not. This time, however, I think she may have crossed the line.”
    “She accused no one.” He shrugged as if he didn’t
care, but his tone could not lie. He was furious—and pained—by that
morning’s column, and if Tillie had known who Lady Whistledown was, she
would have happily trussed her up like a goose.
    It was a strange, fierce feeling, this anger that he’d been hurt.
    “Lady Mathilda… Tillie.”
    She looked up in surprise, unaware that she’d been off in her own thoughts.
    He offered her an amused smile and glanced down at their hands.
    She followed his gaze, and it was only then that
she realized she was gripping his fingers as if they were Lady
Whistledown’s neck. “Oh!” she let out in surprise, followed by the more
mumbly, “Sorry.”
    “Do you make a habit of amputating your dance partners’ fingers?”
    “Only when I have to twist their arms to get them to ask me to dance,” she shot back.
    “And here I thought the war was dangerous,” he murmured.
    She was surprised that he could joke about it, surprised that he would. She wasn’t quite certain how to respond, but then the orchestra
finished the waltz with a surprisingly livery flourish, and she was
saved from having to reply.
    “Shall I return you to your parents?” Peter asked, leading her off the dance floor. “Or to your next partner?”
    “Actually,” she improvised, “I’m rather thirsty. Perhaps the lemonade table?”
    Which, she had noted, was clear across the room.
    “As you wish.”
    Their progress was slow; Tillie kept her pace
uncharacteristically sedate, hoping to stretch their time together by
another minute or two.
    “Have you been enjoying the ball?” she asked him.
    “Bits and pieces,” he said, keeping his gaze straight ahead.
    But she saw the corner of his mouth curve up.
    “Am I a bit or a piece?” she asked daringly.
    He actually stopped. “Do you have any idea what you just said?”
    Too late, she remembered overhearing her brothers talk about bits of muslin and pieces of…
    Her face flamed.
    And then, God help them, they both laughed.
    “Don’t tell anyone,” she whispered, catching her breath. “My parents will lock me away for a month.”
    “That would certainly—”
    “Lady Mathilda! Lady Mathilda!”
    Whatever Peter had meant to say was lost as Mrs.
Featherington, a friend of Tillie’s mother and one of society’s biggest
gossips, bustled up next to them, dragging along her daughter Penelope,
who was dressed in a rather unfortunate shade of yellow.
    “Lady Mathilda,” Mrs. Featherington said. Then she added, in a decidedly frosty voice, “Mr.