For most of an hour the next morning, he was expected to sit in the Blayne House drawing room and make conversation with two ladies and three idiots—rather, suitors of Judith. Occupying the sofa opposite the chairs containing Miss Blayne and Miss Penrose were Nicholas Witherspoon, Sir Humphrey Cavendish, and Asher Langford. Since Miss Judith Blayne was always gracious and mildly interesting in a suitably noncontroversial manner, it was no particular hardship to pass the time in her company. On the other hand, Francesca made him most uncomfortable. Miss Penrose, he corrected himself, absently tapping his fingers lightly on the book in his hand. The cousin of the woman he was supposed to be pursuing. She might someday be his cousin, too, in a way. The thought made him flinch slightly. Which was ridiculous. The physical attraction he felt was only the biological imperative at work. She’d said it herself last night.
