Emily Hendrickson (5 page)

“Pity we couldn’t cross swords. I have a feeling you would like nothing better than to plunge one into me.”

She gave him a speaking look, sniffing a trifle as she did. What a detestable man! True, he was as handsome as may be and had a voice to melt stone, but nonetheless he was detestable.

“That is not true. I was angry with you because you would treat your dear mother in such a way. How anyone could deny that darling lady a small treat is quite beyond me. She adores you so—how can you behave like this?” Drusilla took a small gulp of her sherry and wished she hadn’t. Naturally it went down the wrong way, and she coughed and wheezed fit to tie her in knots.

Lord Brentford grabbed her glass before she could spill a drop, and thumped her on her back in a most unkindly manner. It was, however, effective.

“Take another sip, it will help.” He returned her glass to her hand. His fingers brushed hers as he did, and she was proud her hand remained still. Had he felt that spark shoot through him at their touch? Perhaps it was her imagination? This had been an eventful day and he didn’t make it any easier.

Whatever he might have said next was to be lost. Priddy entered to announce dinner was on the table.

Since there was just the two of them, precedence did not permit her to escape his company for a moment. She placed her hand on his proffered arm, noting the solid muscles covered by his coat, and they walked to the dining room.

“Your mother dines in her room.” Drusilla glanced up at him, wondering what he was thinking.

He ushered her to the table with the care lavished on a Society lady. “So I learned.” His face gave no clue to his thoughts as he seated her next to him.

The dining room was on the other side of the entryway, a large, gracefully furnished room. Mahogany table and chairs from the workshop of Sheraton, a sideboard from the Hepplewhite shop, and the crystal chandelier from a fine London store brought elegance to the room, as did the draperies at the windows. The rich wine fabric picked up the wine-and-cream stripe of the chair coverings. The room positively reeked distinction.

Drusilla decided she truly didn’t do the room justice in her simple white muslin dress that had the narrowest of blue stripes. “I ought to be wearing silk.” She spoke her thoughts aloud before she realized it.

“Surely my mother would fill your wardrobe with silk gowns if you wished.” He spooned up the mushroom soup with every evidence of pleasure. His eyes revealed no amusement. She suspected he would oppose any move by his mother to provide her with a wardrobe.

“I should say not. I brought an adequate collection of gowns with me. I merely save the silk ones for more formal occasions. I would never ask or even hint that your mother should buy me so much as a handkerchief. And if you think I would be such a mercenary nitwit, think again. I should hope I have more integrity than that!” Drusilla glared at him, setting her soupspoon in the bowl. Suddenly, she was no longer hungry.

“Ah, the rectory is speaking. I was told that rectory children tend to be very caring people. Is that so?”

She thought he asked idly, the sort of comment one makes for conversation. She answered in kind, ignoring the snide tone of his first remark. “I suppose so. I do care about people. And what about a marquess? I have heard that peers tend to do nothing important with their days. And that is a pity, you know. I should think the trouble with doing nothing is that you never know when you are done.”

It was his turn to choke, sputtering into his crisp linen napkin.

Concerned, Drusilla pushed her chair back and whisked around to thump him on his back. “Are you all right?”

He took a sip of claret before replying in a somewhat strangled voice. “You do have a way with words, my dear.”

She was going to remind him that she was anything but “his dear” when she caught his gaze on her. She decided it might be better to attend to her meal and forget about sparring words with him.

“Now, to return to the matter at hand,” he began.

“What matter?” Drusilla queried, her head still full of her required apology.

“I was under the impression that my mother desired to have a few friends come down for a party.” He gave her what she considered to be a rather sarcastic look. “Well?” he prompted.

“Yes, well, the invitations have been sent and a few acceptances have arrived. We had no idea you would disapprove when we hatched this plan, you see.” Drusilla accepted a helping of turbot with lobster sauce, peas, and a mound of potatoes. With any luck she ought to be able to eat a portion of everything on her plate. If she didn’t, she’d not sleep. And she would
not
go wandering about this house in the night with his lordship in residence! And the thought of being hungry in the night was not a welcoming one. She took a bite of the delicious food and hoped she’d be allowed to eat in peace.

“Who is invited? Besides Lord Osman, that is.” He demanded, politely, but it was a demand she couldn’t ignore if she wanted, and there was no reason to prevaricate.

Drusilla listed the older people first, sensing that would be wise. Then she mentioned Lady Felicia Tail and Lord Ives, which brought a smile to his lordship’s lips.

“How very providential. I have already invited Ives to come down here for a time. You will like him, I know.” He forked a morsel of turbot and cast her a searching regard that made her curious as to what was in his mind.

Drusilla wondered how he knew that she would like Lord Ives, and took note that he said nothing about her liking Lady Felicia Tail. It seemed to her that he was going to permit the party to proceed. “Your mother will be very pleased with your decision. When I looked in on her before dinner, she was half buried under pillows and a throw, looking as though she had lost her last friend.”

“She is indeed intent upon this party.” He paused in his eating to study Drusilla. “I thought I could persuade her otherwise. It seems not.”

“Even if she wrote you, you might not understand. Letters rarely convey what the person wishes them to, do they?” She watched him carefully, thinking if a gentleman might squirm, that was what he was doing now.

He ate for a time, then fixed his gaze on her. “You, Miss Herbert, are a very unsettling young woman.”

“Oh, pooh. You make me sound like an interfering busybody. I truly am not the slightest meddlesome by nature. Only—I do like to see things done properly.”

“This party is proper?” He sounded a trifle goaded.

“Well, of course it is. I promise you that I will do all I can to make it a success. You’ll see. Your dearest mother will not have to lift a finger.”

“I doubt she would anyway.”

“That isn’t what Mrs. Simpson says,” Drusilla snapped.

“And what does Mrs. Simpson know about it anyway?”

“She related that your mother was used to planning all her parties to the last detail. Everything from menus to entertainment, the bedrooms seen to, the flowers arranged. That is what I shall do for her. Bless her heart, the dear lady will have nothing to do but visit with her friends.”

“And Lord Osman? Will he amuse her as well?”

Drusilla shrugged, and the frail silk scarf eased from inside her bodice. “He has accepted. She was so pleased. They do get along very well, you know. Would it anger you were your mother to marry again?”

“Marry!” He leaned back in his chair to stare at Drusilla, as though she had just sprouted a second head.

“People do, you know. Particularly lonely widows. I trust you have taken care of her finances so she will be protected no matter what?”

“Miss Herbert, it is scarcely any of your business what I do in regard to my mother’s finances.”

“Don’t look at me like that. I am aware that there are gentlemen who are not always gentlemanly in their actions. For all I know, Lord Osman—although a delightful man—could be courting your mother for her money. It does happen.”

“I doubt if I have ever in my life partaken of a conversation like this,” he observed in what sounded like a choked voice.

“It is eminently practical, my lord.”

He took a deep breath and began to eat again. Drusilla did as well.

She was well on her way to finishing the delectable meal when he spoke again.

“When do you expect these people to arrive? Are there provisions for them? Rooms made up and so forth?” He placed his fork and knife on his plate, signaling the footman to take them away. Since it was a simple meal, the next course would have the pudding Drusilla had discussed with Mrs. Simpson along with a bowl of stewed fruit.

“You must have a dreadful opinion of my efforts, sir. Thankfully, we expect them in a few days. Provisions and menus are set. The room are made up, only lacking flowers to make them welcoming.” She gave him a severe frown.

He bestowed a somewhat grudging look of respect on her. At least it appeared so. “You have done well, Miss Herbert. I can see why my mother claims you a treasure.”

“Your mother, my lord, is the treasure. A sweeter lady I have yet to meet.” Drusilla flashed him a reproving look. What was she supposed to say to such a fulsome tribute?

Priddy set the pudding and bowl of stewed fruit on the table, inquired if there was anything else either of them wished, then exited the room, taking the footman with him.

Drusilla took another sip of her wine. It had flowed rather more freely this evening than usual, and his lordship had been careful to keep her glass filled. Why? To show her what an excellent host he was? She suspected he had forgotten more about manners and rules of Society than she would ever learn! Although her parents had been strict, insisting upon proper manners for the children. Yet, there was a difference. He grew up in the upper strata of Society and moved among the very elite.

In her haste to leave Lord Brentford to his port, she nibbled her lemon pudding cake before easing her chair back from the table. “If you will excuse me, sir, I will check on your mother.”

“Have your tea in the drawing room first. I doubt my mother needs you instantly,” he drawled with a derisive note in his voice.

She gave him an uncertain look, then fled. In the drawing room she sipped the tea Priddy brought her while contemplating several weeks of living in the same house as Lord Brentford. She rose from her chair to pace back and forth before the fireplace while she pondered her situation over the warmth of her China tea.

It was unsettling when she caught sight of herself in the looking glass with the wisp of silk hanging any old way about her neck. His lordship must have consigned her to the ranks of the unrefined rustic. She set down her cup to rectify her disorder, first removing her gloves. What must he think!

* * * *

Adrian remained at the dining table, poured a glass of port, then considered Miss Herbert, or Dru, as he was more and more coming to think of her.

She was an original, without a doubt. Her forthright speech was something he rarely encountered, particularly among women. Most women flattered and cajoled, quite prettily as a rule. Dru would have none of that. He was coming to see what about her appealed to his mother.

Naturally, she wasn’t the sort of woman he preferred. When he married, and he knew he must some-day, it would be to someone proper, socially aware, not like this young woman, who was more inclined to be pot valiant!

Then it occurred to him that it was dashed peculiar that he would think of her at the same moment he considered marriage to anyone. Nonsense. Utter rubbish. The girl might be beautiful, but she was a managing female!

Unsettled, he rose from the table with his glass of port in hand. Strolling across the entry hall, he paused in the doorway to the drawing room. She was still there. Her cooling cup of tea sat on the table near the fireplace while she attempted to tuck that wisp of silk into her low-cut bodice.

“Why do you bother?”

She glanced up to see his reflection in the looking glass. “I am not accustomed to low-cut gowns.”

“Were you in London, it would be deemed most fashionable. I cannot believe you obtained it from a mere village mantua maker. The cut and fit are excellent, as is the quality of workmanship.” He strolled closer to her, enjoying the delicate rose that crept into her cheeks.

“The country seamstress receives fashion plates from London, my lord. And fabric is fabric. We are not
that
far from Town. Tunbridge Wells has fine shops, and our local seamstress does excellent work. My sister convinced me that this neckline would be agreeable. However,
I
do not agree.”

“Well, accept that it looks becoming on you. That wisp of silk isn’t required.” He walked over to pull it from her hands, ignoring her gasp of outrage. He dropped the silk on the nearby chair with her discarded gloves.

“You have a fine figure. Accept it.” Adrian wondered at himself. It was not like him to be so forthcoming to a young woman, even one sharing a roof, as it were.

“That is very plain speaking, sirrah.” She flashed him another one of her disapproving looks.

He shrugged, bored with the topic of a sudden. He was not allowed to touch—which was a shame, for she had a superb figure. He guessed her fluttering hand longed to cover up that décolletage that tantalized his eyes.

“Finish your tea before it is cold.” Odd, he couldn’t recall being so tempted at the sight of low-cut bodices before. Why did the view of this particular woman, the luscious hint of cleavage, entice him so? He turned away to place his empty glass on a table. Then he rang for Priddy to bring a pot of hot tea. Perhaps something like tea would help to settle him?

Tea was fetched and a plate of tiny ratafia biscuits with it. Priddy set it down with a flourish, offering the faintest of smiles at Miss Herbert.

“Pour, would you?” Adrian requested as nicely as possible. It wouldn’t do to put her back up unnecessarily. She might qualify for sainthood as far as the servants were concerned, but he had yet to make up his mind.

“You have made up your mind to agree to the party your mother wants?” Her eyes challenged him briefly before she dropped her gaze to the teapot. She poured the tea with a grace that surprised him, although he didn’t know why it should. With the servants as well as his mother praising her to the heavens, he should expect her to walk on water!