Leverton said as he handed her down the front steps of her grandmother’s townhouse. His handsome face was serious, but far kinder than she deserved after the debacle the other night at Lady Barrington’s ball. “I wish you’d stop being so bloody nice,” she said. “You’re making me feel worse.” His brows went up in a politely incredulous arch. Leverton’s eyebrows were always excellent indicators of his mood. Their lift could reduce an impertinent dandy to embarrassed silence or elicit a flustered apology from the most judgmental of society matrons. Gillian wished she could learn the trick. Then she might not have to go around punching people. “Language, Miss Dryden. Would you rather be locked in your room with only bread and water? I could speak to your grandmother, if you’d like.” She perked up. “I promise I wouldn’t complain if you did.” He took her arm and gently urged her forward. “Hiding will only make things worse.” “Not according to Mamma. She thinks it’s foolish to go traipsing about London as if nothing happened.
