Page 55 of West End Earl
None of these men would say such things if they knew a lady was present.
Granted, no one said anything completely reprehensible. But the drastic difference between their polished manners at the dinner table not a half hour before and the faces they showed each other in private made him wish every woman at this house party could see these men with the masks of gentility off before committing herself to marriage.
Over at the bar, Phee poured a glass of brandy, then found a seat at the edge of the room. She didn’t sip at the drink but seemed content in her role of silent onlooker.
He caught her eye. In a silent conversation, she raised a brow, then looked deliberately at the door.
Yes, he’d love nothing more than to go upstairs and escape from their guests. Cal wrinkled his nose.
No, love. Can’t escape.
She pouted her bottom lip, then looked away.
Lord Hornsby sat on the sofa near her, cradling a book in his lap. Occasionally a burst of laughter from the other guests would cause him to look up and offer a vague smile to the room in general before returning to the book.
Hornsby had a strong nose and decent jaw. Brows that were nearly black made a nice contrast to the light-brown hair in need of a trim. Not a bad-looking fellow at all, and he had a peaceful reserve about him. Perhaps a man like Hornsby was exactly what Emma needed—someone to act as an anchor when she flitted to the heights of fancy and emotion. The book of poetry in his hands—assuming Cal read the spine correctly from this distance—implied he might be a suitable match for Miss Cuthbert. A solid option for either lady.
Because his body seemed hyperaware of hers, Cal noticed when Phee took a sip of the brandy. Her first drink since arriving.
Warrick and Ainsley were telling tall tales to the baron, trying to outdo one another in their blatant lies, and Cal hoped he wouldn’t have to rein them in again. So far, they’d kept things respectable enough. Barely.
Ainsley said, “Hornsby, my good man. You’re a handsome fellow. Surely you have your share of stories to tell us.”
Hornsby gave them that slight smile again. “Hate to disappoint, but I’m not much for London. The country suits me well enough.”
Hmm, if Hornsby didn’t like London, he might not be ideal for Emma. Cal would point Miss Cuthbert in that direction, then. No matter. There were options aplenty.
Gaffney still seemed a solid choice for Miss Cuthbert too. Lord knew the baron would have to be content with a duke in the family, a fact that gave Cal a sure path out of this mess. Not only had all Phee’s initial reports about his reputation been clean but Gaffney rose in Cal’s esteem by ignoring Ainsley and Warrick altogether in favor of playing billiards.
Cal cocked his head and studied the duke as he took a draw on his snifter of brandy. Gaffney would do nicely, and facilitating a match between him and Miss Cuthbert might even solidify the budding business relationship between himself and the duke. Cal wandered over and picked up a cue. “Care for company? I’ve been looking forward to talking with you, your grace.”
“By all means. Let’s play.” Gaffney waved him closer and set up the table.
Across the room, Phee set her mostly full glass on a tray and murmured something to Hornsby. She was making her escape. Meanwhile, he and the other men would join the ladies shortly, then while away the hours, pretending to be impressed by pianoforte performances or recitations of poetry.
Cal would rather sleep. Preferably with Phee beside him. He couldn’t help watching her pert heart-shaped arse as she left him to deal with the social niceties.
“Do you want to go first, or shall I?” Gaffney asked, pulling him from his thoughts.
Cal drained his glass and set it aside. “Rank over beauty. You first.”
The duke grinned and lined up a shot.
“Speaking of beauty, have you had a chance to talk to Miss Violet Cuthbert yet?” Cal asked, and cast one last look at the door. To think, if not for this role as host, he could leave right now and have Phee moaning within minutes.
Instead, he was playing matchmaker, holding a stick and balls.
Chapter Eighteen
Archery had been a horrible idea.
“Mr. Hardwick? Show me again how to draw the bow. You’re so accomplished at this.” Miss Lillian’s attention hadn’t wavered since dinner the night before.
Phee drew a deep breath and prayed for patience, then got a lungful of the woman’s lavender perfume. Many women favored lavender, but her opinion hadn’t changed since childhood. It smelled like cat piss. That she managed to stop her instinctive lip curl was nearly miraculous.
“Maintain a firm wrist. Be strong through the arm and shoulder,” Phee instructed, stepping away to examine her overall form.
Miss Lillian made another attempt, but she either was tremendously bad at this or was being disingenuous about the whole exercise. “Perhaps if you stand behind me and place my arms properly, I will grasp your meaning.”
