Author: Sara Bennett
Category: Historical
Go to read content：https://readnovelfree.com/p/39974_8
“He is a grown man and considers himself past what he calls ‘fussing.’ He was named for my great-uncle, who was an amateur explorer, and George likes to think himself of a similar fearless character, although as far as I can make out, most of his exploring is done in Covent Garden.”
Jasper gave a snort, hastily turning it into a cough.
Marissa was not such an innocent that she didn’t know what Covent Garden was famous for, besides opera and ballet—the strumpets who stood about looking for gentlemen to buy them for an hour or a night. She felt defensive on George’s behalf; she wanted to tell Lord Kent that George would never do such a thing. But even as the urge rose in her, doubt joined it. George was a flirt, the sort of man who always noticed a pretty face and a neat ankle, and it was quite possible—in fact more than likely—that
George did spend time in Covent Garden. She would sound naïve if she declared him innocent of the charge, but there was one point she could argue on his behalf.
“Indeed?” she said at last, with a distinct chill in her voice, fixing Lord Kent with her dark gaze. “I think you are wrong. George would make a very good explorer.”
Whispers: Interactive StoriesMake your own choices and decide what happens next!
He gave her a limpid look from his blue eyes. “Do you, Miss Rotherhild?”
“Yes, I do.”
“I find this an interesting study, Kent,” Jasper said in his precise way. “Does this mean any man, or woman,” with a nod to Marissa and her grandmother, “named for another will take on some aspect of their namesake’s personality? For instance, my first name is Charles and I was named by my mother for a crusty uncle with a great deal of money. Does that mean I will become as irascible as my uncle Charles?”
Kent gave a deep chuckle. “Definitely, Jasper.”
“You need to fight against it,” Lady Bethany said, amused. “Be contrary. Ask yourself what your namesake would do and then do the opposite. I was named for a rather prim great-grandmother who never did anything without earnestly seeking the advice of her chaplain. I like to think I am her complete opposite, but it has taken a great deal of hard work.”
“Grandmamma,” Marissa said with a sigh, but wasn’t surprised when she was ignored.
“Then I think I am safe where my uncle Charles is concerned,” Jasper replied, his eyes sparkling. “Unless I suddenly develop a liking for small, smelly dogs and black stout.”
They smiled at each other with growing interest, and Marissa knew her grandmamma was about to make another conquest. How did she do it? Marissa had often wondered how her grandmother managed to ensnare gentlemen—what was her secret?—but until George and the Husband Hunters Club came along she hadn’t considered asking for advice. Perhaps now she would…if George ever came home.
Looking up she noticed that Lord Kent was observing the older couple with the same bemusement as herself. In an effort to distract him, and herself, she said, “Tell me, my lord, who were you named for?”
His expression changed abruptly, his eyes narrowing and his mouth tightening. He was actually frowning at her, Marissa thought in surprise, not sure whether to frown back or give a nervous giggle. Obviously she had touched a raw spot.
It was Jasper who came to Marissa’s rescue. “Forgive my rude friend, Miss Rotherhild. His forename is a matter of great embarrassment to him.”
“Jasper,” Kent growled a warning.
Marissa thought it served him right if he was embarrassed. He shouldn’t have said those things about George. “Come, my lord, I’m sure your secret can’t be so awful…can it?”
Jasper gave a helpless lift of the shoulders. “Tell them, Kent. I don’t know why you make such a fuss. It only draws attention to it.”
Lord Kent took a gulp of his wine and set the glass down heavily on the table. “At the time I was born my mother was going through a romantic phase,” he said, sounding extremely reluctant.
“Oh dear, you’re not called Cupid, are you?” Marissa pulled a mock sympathetic face, enjoying herself immensely. “Or Pan, perhaps? Although he was half goat, wasn’t he, and I’m sure you’re not—”
“No, Miss Rotherhild, I’m not.”
Marissa bit her lip and waited.
He took a breath. “I am named for a saint. My birthday falls on the fourteenth of February.”
Lady Bethany clapped her hands together in glee. “St. Valentine’s Day! Valentine Kent. It is, isn’t it?”
Marissa could not think of a more inappropriate name for George’s brother. Valentine? The saint of lovers, of kisses and flowers and happy endings. It was quite ludicrous. He should be called something prosaic like Jack or Henry or—
His deep voice interrupted her thoughts. “As a boy I longed for a simple manly name like Jack or Henry. You can imagine the bullying I endured at school.” He spoke matter-of-factly, but Marissa was sure she heard an undercurrent in his voice that spoke of painful memories. Did George’s brother have a sensitive side? And was his unhappy childhood the reason he’d channeled his intellect into the study of roses? Perhaps it had been wrong of her to force him into revealing his name like that, although she couldn’t regret it after what he’d said about George.
Jasper launched into conversation, regaling Lady Bethany with the tale of a man named Admonition. But Marissa was only half listening. She was watching Valentine Kent.
He was smoothing his cuffs, although they were so creased she didn’t know why he bothered. Didn’t he have a valet? Her gaze lifted to the tilt of his head and the dark sweep of his lashes, so long they were almost feminine, if one discounted the masculine cheek they brushed against. His nose was similar to George’s, but not nearly as straight. There was a bump in it, as if he’d broken it at some time. Fighting the bullies who teased him about his name? By the breadth of his shoulders she thought he was probably handy with his fists.
Marissa’s gaze traveled down the length of his strong arms, coming to rest on his hands. They were large, like the rest of him, but with long fingers rather than the blunt and broad digits one might have expected. One might even call them artistic—surely that was the sign of a sensitive soul? The idea disturbed her. She felt unsettled, confused, and—more disturbingly—aroused.