He shut his snuff-box and glanced down at her, still good-humoured, but with something at the back of his eyes which gave her pause. A little anger shook her; she understood quite well: he would not discuss his marriage with her. She said, trying to make her voice light: “You will say it is not my business, I suppose.”
“I am never rude, Caroline,” objected his lordship mildly.
She felt herself foiled, but smiled. “No indeed. I’ve heard it said you’re the smoothest-spoken man in England.” She studied her rings, moving her hand to catch the light. “But I didn’t know you thought of marriage.” She flashed a look up at him. “You see,” she said, mock-solemn, “I thought you loved me—only me!”
“What in the world,” inquired his lordship, “has that to do with my marriage? I am entirely at your feet, my dear. Quite the prettiest feet I ever remember to have seen.”
“And you’ve seen many, I apprehend,” she said with a certain dryness.
“Dozens,” said his lordship cheerfully.
She did not mean to say it, but the words slipped out before she could guard her tongue. “But for all that you are at my feet, Marcus, you have offered for another woman.”
The Earl had put up his glass to inspect a Dresden harlequin upon the mantelpiece. “If you bought that for a Kandler, my love, I am much afraid that you have been imposed upon,” he remarked.
“It was given me,” she said impatiently.
“How shocking!” said his lordship. “I will send you a very pretty pair of dancing figures in its place.”