Page 53 of West End Earl
Lords Warrick and Ainsley were extra insurance, in case the poet or the higher title didn’t stick. Both men were in their prime, handsome, charming, intelligent, and amusing. Surely one of them would interest Miss Cuthbert. And if not her, perhaps Emma.
The hard part of planning this had been finding other women that would be enjoyable company for the party, without distracting from the appeal of his sister and Miss Cuthbert. As crass as that sounded, it served his interests to shine a light on them, and inviting competition didn’t make sense. Miss Georgina Lowden and Miss Lillian Fitzwilliam fit the bill perfectly. Miss Georgina was a quiet woman who did her damnedest to blend into the wallpaper at every social occasion but came from an old family. Miss Lillian had been out for several Seasons but hadn’t brought a suitor to scratch—possibly because of her social-climbing mother and a rather brusque personality.
Through the doorway, he spied a carriage with a ducal crest on the door. Meeting the duke at the top of the stairs, Cal offered a warm handshake. “Gaffney, so glad you could make it.”
The newest duke in the realm shook his hand and returned the smile with one of his own. “Carlyle. Thank you for giving me a reason to avoid London for a while longer,” he said, showcasing a charming dimple. Yes indeed, the ladies would love him.
“Come inside. Your room is ready, but if you choose, there’s some excellent brandy in the library. I’ve had Cook procure some of our local hard cider with you in mind, as well. Perfect on a hot day like today.”
If Miss Cuthbert didn’t turn on the charm this evening at dinner, Cal might have to take drastic measures. Lock her in a closet with each eligible bachelor or something. Because come hell or high water, he would not be marrying the baron’s daughter.
Chapter Seventeen
Miss Lillian Fitzwilliam must possess a soft spot for awkward, pasty-skinned redheads. That, or this was all a rather cruel joke. No one at the dinner table could overlook Miss Lillian’s rather outrageous flirtation with Adam Hardwick. Which dashed Phee’s hopes of passing the house party in relative anonymity. Everyone eyed Adam Hardwick with speculation, and she couldn’t blame them.
Cal appeared to find the whole thing hilarious, and the one ray of happiness in this dinner so far had been watching him try not to choke on his wine while stifling his laughter. No doubt she’d hear about it later. Anticipation warmed her belly. Because there would be alater. He’d whispered a promise when they’d crossed paths before dinner, and her pinkie finger had tingled after he’d brushed it.
Thinking about the things she planned to do with Cal later that night while a woman rested her rather impressive bosom on Phee’s arm felt dirty—and not in a fun way. At least Miss Lillian was friendly. Which struck her as odd, since prior to this house party, during the few social occasions where they’d met—usually because Cal had finagled an extra invitation—Miss Lillian had seemed a trifle rude and generally not very likable.
“Tell me, Mr. Hardwick. How long have you been in London? I thought I’d met all the notable men, but I don’t recall seeing you before this year.” Her smile was pure coquette, and Phee had to give her credit—Miss Lillian didn’t look silly with the expression. Phee would look like she suffered from bowel issues if she attempted a simper like that.
“After school, I came to London. I didn’t move about in society much until Lord Carlyle hired me.” Surely, the gentle reminder of Adam Hardwick’s status as an employee of their host would cool the flirtatious line of questioning.
“I do love a man who is not afraid to make his own way in the world,” she said. “It would have been so easy to simply be a gentleman of leisure while awaiting your inheritance, but you chose to work. To build connections and friendships with your peers and earn your living. That’s admirable.”
How the hell had her inheritance become a topic of discussion? On Phee’s left, Miss Georgina Lowden gave her a wide-eyed look. Miss Georgina picked up her wineglass and drank with a focus that held its own commentary, as if the only way to ensure she didn’t say the wrong thing was to keep her mouth busy. If Phee had any confidence that alcohol would help the situation, she’d happily join her.
“Miss Lillian, I am not sure what you’ve heard, but I don’t feel comfortable discussing my personal finances with anyone.”
Miss Lillian waved aside the objection with a flutter of her hand and a sweep of her lashes. “I apologize, Mr. Hardwick. That was poorly done of me. Mother made a dossier for all the guests, and I thought your story fascinating. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable with my admiration.” The guest placed a hand over Phee’s fingers, covering the death grip Phee had on her butter knife.
Cal’s eyes were suspiciously bright.
Do something.She raised an expectant brow.
He cleared his throat. “Miss Lillian, I’m sorry to see your mother absent this evening.”
“Thank you for asking after her, milord. Mother doesn’t travel happily, I’m afraid. It’s usually a day or so before she finds her equilibrium after spending hours in a carriage.”
And yet here Miss Lillian sat without a maid or chaperone. Granted, she’d been out for several years. Still. Between the lack of chaperone and her comment about having a dossier on each guest, Miss Lillian’s goals were obvious. She’d set out to snag herself a husband, no matter what.
Miss Lillian’s mother could probably investigate for the Home Office if she’d found information on Adam Hardwick’s modest inheritance. While the money—assuming Milton hadn’t gotten his hands on all of it—ensured an eventual lifetime of comfort, it would never be enough to fund a lifestyle like those enjoyed by the people at this table.
As soon as possible, Phee reclaimed her hand and the knife she needed to cut the next bite of delicious pheasant. When Miss Lillian shifted away, Phee rested that hand in her lap, thus removing the opportunity for the woman to rest her breasts on Phee’s forearm again.
Lordy. It would be easier to hide upstairs and avoid the house party altogether.
Across the table, Lady Emma abruptly shoved her chair back and hurried from the room. When several moments passed and she didn’t return, an instinct tingled at her nape, and Phee rose as well.
“Pardon me, Miss Lillian. Miss Georgina.” Phee brought her wineglass with her as she left the table in case her hunch was correct.
Sure enough, Lady Emma had made it as far as the library doors before spilling her dinner into yet another vase of flowers. This supposed traveling sickness would be tremendously hard on the porcelain if she kept on like this, but it wouldn’t be kind to see what type of excuse the girl would give this time.
Instead, Phee waited until the retching finished, then held out the glass of wine. “Here, milady. Rinse your mouth out.”
Emma didn’t look at her but did as instructed. Hazarding a guess, Phee murmured, “It gets better, you know. A few weeks in. For most women, anyway.”
Emma’s panicked look confirmed everything. “You can’t tell Cal.”
