Page 16 of His Lordship's True Lady
Somewhere on the premises, Oscar was doubtless swilling punch at a great rate, pausing only to flirt with young ladies or dally with a straying wife. Sensible people lingered near the tents in case the clouds that had been threatening all morning decided to water Mrs. Chuzzleton’s flowers.
“A pity the Holland bulbs did not accommodate Mrs. Chuzzleton’s social schedule,” her ladyship said, twirling her parasol.
The countess—who insisted Lily call her Emmie when they were private—had married very much above her station when she’d spoken her vows with Rosecroft. She was thus well outside the circle of ladies who might have known Lily as a girl. Her ladyship was also unlikely to note minor lapses of deportment in a woman all of society thought headed for life on the shelf.
The shelf loomed in Lily’s awareness like a patch of the Promised Land, and she prayed nightly that Uncle Walter’s plans for her included decades of peace and relative independence in obscure spinsterdom.
“The tulips must have been spectacular,” Lily said, though now, past their prime, they looked… pathetic. Stems without flowers, petals rotting on the dirt, leaves soon to follow.
“Shall we see if the buffet has anything to offer?” her ladyship suggested. “I’m not that hungry, but this breeze has become too refreshing.”
The buffet sat beneath a tent at the foot of the garden. “God forbid we should suffer rosy cheeks from an abundance of fresh air.”
The tent would be as stuffy as the garden was chilly, with everybody packed in too closely, speaking too loudly, and discreetly spilling their punch on one another’s slippers when they realized how liberal Mrs. Chuzzleton had been with the sugar.
“Is something amiss, Lily?”
Well, yes. As Rosecroft had handed Lily out of the coach, he’d quietly conveyed that Werther Islington would be taking a repairing lease for the foreseeable future. Lily had no idea what his lordship had been going on about. Islington was a bachelor from a decent family, so he showed up in the predictable locations looking overfed and acting under-couth.
“Do you know a Mr. Werther Islington?”
Her ladyship’s parasol stilled. “He’s friends with Rupert Sharp.”
That explained it. Rupert, who was anything but sharp, had got the benefit of Lily’s insight regarding his marital prospects two years ago, and what young men lacked in brains, they made up for in wounded pride. Uncle had been wroth with her, though Uncle was equally disapproving of Lily’s rare friendly impulses toward the bachelors.
And there was Rupert’s mama, hovering over the sandwich table just inside the tent.
“I’m off to find the ladies’ retiring room,” Lily said. “You needn’t join me. It’s too early for the rakes to be out of bed, and the fortune hunters are all swarming about the free food and drink.”
“True enough. I’ll find Rosecroft, and we can tear ourselves away from this bacchanal despite its endless blandishments.”
“I’ll meet you in the mews. Give me five minutes.”
Five minutes to sit in peace and quiet, while the throbbing in Lily’s head eased and her sense of impatience with a wasted day ebbed. Tomorrow, she would take Bronwyn to meet Daisy, and that—turning a pair of little girls loose in a nursery full of dolls—held far more appeal than any of polite society’s gatherings.
Retiring rooms were usually on the first floor, so inside and up the main stairs Lily went. The staff was doubtless busy with the guests in the garden, and the quiet in the house was welcome.
Seeing neither maid nor footman from whom to ask directions, Lily took the first turning and ran smack into the Earl of Grampion.
“She’s after me,” he said, glancing over his shoulder. “Thank God you found me.”
“Who’s after you?”
“The Humplewit creature,” he said, taking Lily by the hand and leading her along the corridor. “She has eighteen hands, her teeth are filed to sharp points, and her prehensile tongue could reach right into a man’s exchequer, there to secure the contents into her permanent possession.”
Footsteps sounded from the opposite direction.
Grampion pulled Lily into an alcove, where the scent of hyacinths blended with fresh greenery. A replica of the Apollo Belvedere wore a garland of ivy around his shoulders as he peered out into the gardens, the stone embodiment of male perfection.
Grampion was a good deal more interesting.
“Dorie Humplewit is a known flirt,” Lily whispered as the footsteps came closer. “You mustn’t think anything of it.”
“I am a known unwed, titled bachelor. Do you know how easily—?”
“Oh, Gram-pee-un! Gram-peeeeeee-un!” a woman called. “Mustn’t be coy, my lord!”
The earl tugged loose a velvet drape so it shielded one side of the alcove, then wrapped his arms about Lily and turned, putting his back to the corridor.
