Darrington 01 - Marriage Minded Lord (2 page)

And w
hat of his younger brother, Oliver, or his baby sister, Lauren? Had they fallen victim to familial guilt as well? The last he heard, Oliver, or rather Viscount Tralsburg since he was the second son of the late earl, had been gadding about Spain or perhaps it had been India while Lauren continued to corrupt the cousins with her hoydenish behavior in Sussex. Breaking hearts and riding neck-or-nothing through the countryside seemed to be her favorite pastimes.

No wonder Mother is worried about progeny. We’re all a rather independent lot.
If the Darrington children didn’t settle down, and soon, there would be no grandchildren.

“I’m thirty-five and know my own mind, damn it,”
Felix told his inkwell. “I’m too old to let my mother order me about or tell me which woman is eligible,” he informed the candlestick on the corner of his desk. “If I want to wed, I’ll decide the time and choose a woman accordingly, not because my theatrical parent is bored,” he complained to his ledger book. “Why can she not find a nice widower to occupy her attention and thereby leave me alone?”

November 18
th
, 1815

Felix hid a yawn behind his napkin. The musicale evening at Lady Drummond’s mansion in St. James Square had tried his patience, for the harpist hadn’t been that skilled, but at least the entertainment served as an excuse not to accompany his sister wherever she intended to spend the Saturday night. As he placed his napkin on his lap, he glanced around the table and its five other occupants. Besides him and Lady Drummond, there were two couples, both of which he’d only seen in passing before, and both women were above the age of which he was interested.

That left Lady Drummond herself.
It was probably just the way she’d planned. He hadn’t helped the situation by accepting her invitation with alacrity as soon as it was offered if only to avoid lingering around home and his mother. Unfortunately, if he desired to marry soon, he had to start somewhere, and that meant sitting at Lady Drummond’s table with gritted teeth while he listened to the banal dinner conversation regarding politics, male and female fashions, or anything else the participants thought of some import.

With a sigh that held every ounce of annoyance
he felt for his mother’s manipulation, Felix contemplated the remaining contents of his bowl. He ate the last bite of the thick leek and potato soup. It had been the most satisfying course he’d had since arriving in London—not that the staff in his own Mayfair house—or even the house in Kent—lacked skill. Graves would be mortified to find his operation compared to that of Lady Olivia Drummond’s, but there it was. Felix lifted his gaze to her while her butler gestured for a footman to clear away the soup bowls.

“Is your dinner pleasing,
Lord Swandon?” Her blonde hair fell in ringlets to frame her oval face and highlight her hazel eyes. Unfortunately the effect was ruined by the gaudy and somewhat inappropriate diamond tiara threaded into her coif.
Vulgar piece, that.
Why she felt her penchant for ostentatious daring would impress the
Ton
, he had no idea.

“Quite.” He
ground his teeth against her use of his title. Why couldn’t contemporaries just call each other by their Christian names and get on with it? Perhaps he should put the invitation in writing on his calling cards, but, of course, that would be against societal rules. “In fact,” he waited until the main course of roast beef and roasted root vegetables was laid in front of all the diners. “This is possibly the best meal I’ve eaten in some time, at least in London. My cook in Kent does a lovely job. Incomparable, really.”

“Well,
since you’re such a connoisseur, I thank you for the praise just the same.” When she simpered, fine lines appeared around her eyes and mouth, which made her appear older than her years.

“You’re most welcome.” If he remembered correctly, Lady Drummond approached her thirtieth year and had been widowed a few years before.
Perhaps she lived an anxiety-laden life for the years to have been so harsh on her face.

“It did take m
e hours to plan the menu.” She touched a golden locket that hung from a strand of pearls around her neck. He followed her movements with his gaze then slid it lower to appreciate the curve of her ample bosom. “I simply agonized over the choices.” A knowing grin curved her lips when he raised his gaze to hers.

The sound of crockery breaking rang through the dining room
and severed the spell her charms had cast. He glanced toward the butler’s pantry.

“Who does she think she is?” Silver clanked against silver.

Though the words were in French, Felix understood them as he’d been thoroughly schooled in the language, and he grinned despite the impropriety. The speaker was obviously a person who knew their own mind and didn’t care about the consequences of talking in such an impromptu fashion.

“As if
she
had anything to do with the meal,” the heated speaker continued. “I’d like to see her titled rump touch any of this food before it hits the table. In fact, I’d wager her soft fingers wouldn’t know what to do if she had to work for anything.”

“Hush, love
, they’ll hear you,” a second speaker joined the first.

“I spoke in French, Cook. I doubt half of them can translate.
Too lazy, the lot of them, to use their brains to figure it out.”

“No matter.
They’re Quality and will know the language. You are tempting fate and Lady Drummond’s goodwill. Come back to the kitchen now,” the much quieter and older-sounding voice soothed the first speaker. “I’ll make us both a nice cup of tea.”

“What is the English penchant for tea? As if such a beverage will fix anything
,” the first woman complained. And then there was nothing more.

The lyrical quality of the first speaker’s voice echoed and bounced in Felix’s brain like
notes played from the finest symphony. Who was that woman and why did he want nothing more than to hear her voice again? Already, he enjoyed her verve, and the passion infused into her words heated his blood. He shook his head to banish the thought and raised an eyebrow. “Quite a feisty crop of servants you employ, Lady Drummond.”

“Please, we are both of an age
and well-acquainted. Call me Olivia.”

“Very well. And I am Felix.”

“Of course.” She pushed the food around on her plate while she pursed her lips. “I plan to take the servants to task in due course.”

“If you’re having
domestic problems now, chances are the staff is too far gone,” one of the female guests commented.

She flicked
her gaze from the woman who spoke before alighting on Felix once more. “Yes, well, be that as it may, I know exactly which of my servants caused the commotion.” Olivia’s eyes flashed her ire. “It’s my companion, Clarice. Well, she’s more of a social secretary, though she does accompany about town when the occasion demands. She shouldn’t be in the kitchens, but I’ve found I cannot stop her any more than I can stop the wind. She gravitates there despite my repugnance for fraternization with the lower servants.”

Felix cut smoothly into his beef. “Intriguing. Why would a lady’s companion seek refuge in the kitchen
s?” He’d heard whispered rumors of Olivia’s foul humor as well as the darker anger of her father, but there’d been nothing concrete to substantiate them. Neither did anyone know from whence the Drummond fortune sprang. Her father, the Earl of Wynesford, had holdings all over the country, as well as some in the Caribbean, but little was known of him and neither did he make many public appearances outside of Parliament.

Also intriguing.

“Why does the rain fall upon one street in London and not the next in some storms? I don’t claim to understand every little thing.” She swept her gaze around the table. “Clarice goes into the kitchens during mealtimes, which I suppose spares me from having to set a place for her at the table and listen to her prattle. She has no manners and is oftentimes rude.”

“A rather harsh viewpoint.” Felix pushed his plate away
as he pondered the loveliness of the name Clarice. His appetite had fled at the outset of Olivia’s attitude. “If she’s pedigreed enough to be your companion, she doesn’t belong in the kitchens. Why do you let class lines blur?”

The guests exchanged uncomfortable glances.

Olivia flashed a toothy smile at her company. “What difference is it to you, Felix? She is in my employ, no higher in rank than a governess I daresay, and hardly the topic of dinner conversation. Given her history, I’m doing her a favor, taking her in when no one else would touch her.”

Felix waited, but
Olivia said nothing else after the vague insult. He frowned. Such behavior was not something he looked for in a potential mate.

“Well then.”
She nodded to her butler. “Pomeroy, please relay my wishes to have dessert brought out. I’d like to move this dinner along in order to usher in more pleasing entertainment.”

“Actually,” Felix raised a hand. “If you may
, convince Cook to bring dessert personally. I’d like to convey my thanks for this meal while she attends us.”

“As you wish, my lady.
My lord.” The butler moved on swift feet and disappeared into the hall.

“What is this fascination you seem to have with my kitchen staff?”
Olivia ran a finger around the rim of her wineglass. Her eyes narrowed. “I thought all of you Tories held to tradition to keep classes separated.”

He cocked an eyebrow. “Wishing to thank your cook for preparing a meal doesn’t mean I’ve crossed class lines.” He took a slow sip of his wine. It was
a rather good red. “Remembering one’s manners doesn’t stop regardless of title or wealth. I’d like to believe the little niceties separate us from those who abuse their titles or power.”

One of the men—Viscount Hemsley—laughed. “Beneath that stanch cloak of tradition, you’re an idealist,
Swandon. If you’re not careful, you’ll turn Whig before the year is out. During Parliament’s next session, you’ll be fighting for the rights of the common people and against all of us.”

Felix grinned. “Not a chance. It would delight my brother to no end
, and we cannot have that.” He looked at his companions, suddenly glad he’d be free of their company and before his own hearth in a few hours. “It will take more than one voice in Parliament to work toward a united good. The Whigs need more help than mine, I daresay. Best leave sweeping changes to the younger men. I have other matters to attend to.”

Hemsley chuckled. “Rumor has it your mother has summoned you home like her lapdog and
demands that you marry.”

Felix narrowed his eyes. “So she has, but that doesn’t mean I intend to follow her dictates. I’m merely here for Parliamentary duties.” Devil take the gossipmongers.

Pomeroy returned and saved him from further comment. He cleared his throat. “Miss Delacroix is here in lieu of Cook, who has declined the summons, my lady. She cited a case of nerves, I believe.”

“Of course she is,”
Olivia muttered. “The woman is a plague.”

The background conversation faded as did everything else
Olivia said while Felix stared at the newcomer. Her rust-colored gown set off slightly olive-hued skin. A few curly tendrils of black hair had escaped the knot at the back of her head and clung to her neck, but her big brown eyes framed with sooty lashes captivated him.

“Which one of you requested
to see Cook?” Her French-accented English was as flawless as if she’d spoken the language all her life. Plush lips formed the words. With great effort, he wrenched his gaze from her mouth to focus on her. She held a crystal trifle dish in both hands. Every layer of the dessert was clearly visible, all purple jam, pale pastry cream and pound cake.

His mouth watered.
His pulse pounded. Sweat trickled down his back and dampened his shirt.
What an enchanting creature.
“I did.” Felix rose. He resisted the urge to straighten his clothing in her presence. “I’m Felix Darrington, well, I used to be until I assumed Earl of Swandon title.”

She curtsied.
“Very good, Lord Swandon.”

Olivia rapped her knuckles on the tabletop. “Clarice, I must tell you—once again—that talking about your betters to the kitchen staff will not be tolerated.”