Page 2 of Reforming Lord Ragsdale
He paused a moment in thought, embarrassed to have forgotten something that obviously had meaning for his mother. “My cousins,” he repeated.
“John, you are the dearest blockhead,” she said, taking his arm and pulling him toward the door. “My sister’s children from Virginia! Don’t you remember?”
He did now. In fact, he remembered a winter’s worth of bills to refurbish the ballroom and downstairs sitting rooms. And wasn’t there something about Oxford? “Let’s see if I remember now, Mama,” he teased. “Someone is going to Oxford, and someone else is attempting a come out under your redoubtable aegis.”
“Excellent!” she commended him. “Sometimes you are the soul of efficiency.”
“Not often, m’dear,” he murmured as they descended the stairs. “Will you begin reminding me on a regular basis that I must engage a secretary, and soon?”
“I have been,” she said patiently. “And I’ve been reminding you about a valet too, and while we’re at it, a wife.”
He laughed out loud at the seriousness of her expression. “Which of the three do I need worse, madam?” he quizzed as she steered him toward the gold saloon, reserved for unpleasant events, formal occasions, and, apparently, little-known relatives.
“A wife,” she replied promptly as she allowed Lasker to open the door for her. “Ah, my dears! Heavens, are you drooping? Let me introduce your cousin John Staples, LordRagsdale. John, here are Robert and Sally Claridge, your cousins from Richmond, Virginia. Come forward, my dears. He won’t bite.”
Of course I will not bite, he thought as he came forward to shake cousin Robert’s hand. He thought he might kiss Sally’s cheek, but she was staring at his eye patch as though she expected him suddenly to brandish a cutlass and edge her toward a plank. He nodded to her instead. “Delighted to meet you,” he murmured automatically, wondering how soon he could escape to White’s and bury his face in a pint of the finest.
He had to admit that they were a handsome pair, as he stepped back and allowed his mother’s conversation to fill in any awkward gaps before they had the chance to develop. Sally Claridge had his own mother’s ash-blonde good looks. If the expression in her blue eyes was a trifle vacant, perhaps a good night’s rest on a pillow that did not pitch and yaw with an ocean under it would make the difference.
On the other hand, Robert’s dark eyes seemed to miss nothing as he gazed about the room, looking like a solicitor totaling up the sum of each knickknack and trifle.I certainly hope we measure up, Lord Ragsdale thought as he cast an amused glance in Robert’s direction, indicated a seat on the sofa to Sally, and then turned his attention to the fifth person in the room.
She should have taken up no more than a moment’s flick of his eyes because she could only be Sally Claridge’s servant, but he found himself regarding her with some thoroughness, and his own interest surprised him.
Lord Ragsdale enjoyed a shapely woman, and this female before him was no exception to his admiration. She was still covered with a rather shabby cloak, but the slope of it told him that she was nicely endowed. His attention was drawn to her regal posture. She stood straight and tall, her chin back, her head up, as poised a lady as ever favored the gold saloon. Her air fascinated him.
He knew she must be tired. Sally Claridge had sunk herself onto the sofa with the appearance of one destined never to rise again, while Robert leaned heavily on a chair back. The servant before him made no such concession to exhaustion. She bore herself like a queen, and he was intrigued in spite of himself.
“And you are. . .?” he began.
John threw himself into one of the dainty chairs, and he heard his mother suck in her breath as it creaked. “That’s Emma, Sally’s waiting woman. Emma, I wish you’d take my cloak. And see here, there’s Sally’s too. I don’t know why we need to remind you.”
Without a word, the woman came forward and took the cloaks.
They were both much heavier than the one she still wore, but she draped them gracefully over her arm and retreated into the background again, her back as straight as a duchess’s.
Lord Ragsdale looked around at his butler, who stood in the doorway. “Lasker, take the cloaks. Yours too ... Emma, is it?”
She nodded and showed the barest dimple in his direction.
“You are such a dunce, Emma! Can you not at least say, ‘Thank you, my lord’?” Robert burst out.
“Thank you, my lord,” the woman whispered, her cheeks aflame with color.
“That wasn’t necessary,” Lord Ragsdale replied mildly to his cousin.
There was an awkward pause, which his mother filled adroitly, as he knew she would. “Robert, Sally, tell me how my sister does. I know you are both tired, but I must know.” With a shy look in Lord Ragsdale’s direction, Sally murmured a response to his mother, and Robert rummaged in his waistcoat for a letter. Lord Ragsdale clasped his hands behind his back and took another look at the waiting woman, as Robert called her.
It was a quaint expression, one he had not heard before, but it fit her exactly. She stood patient and still as his motherforged ahead with conversation, looking like someone used to waiting. He thought her eyes were green, and her expression told him that her mind was miles distant. For a brief moment, he wondered what she was thinking, and then he laughed inwardly.Really, Johnny, who cares what a servant thinks?he told himself.I am sure you do not.
“Well, son, is it agreed?”
Startled, he glanced at his mother, who was observing him with that combination of exasperation and fondness he was familiar with.
“I’m sorry, m’dear, but I was not attending. Say on, please. Tell me what it is I am about to agree to.”
It was the merest jest. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed that fleeting dimple again. Sally registered nothing on her face, and Robert just looked bored.
“John, sometimes I think you are certifiable.”
