Page 30 of His Grace, the Duke
Renley snorted, joining James on the sofa.
“Please, can we dispense with calling Olivia a gorgon?” Rosalie interjected, eyes still on the list. She pursed her lips, hitting the end. “Renley... I’m seeing no military men here. Where is your list?”
“I don’t have a list,” he replied, stretching out next to James. “She’s made it quite clear what she thinks of men in uniform. I doubt any of my bachelor friends will fit the bill.”
“Hmm... you might have a point.” Rosalie knew all too well what he meant, having heard Olivia thoroughly trounce him at dinner on their first night at Alcott. “Tell me about these other names then. Are they all unmarried lords between twenty-five and forty?”
“I don’t have their exact ages, but I’d guess yes,” James replied.
“Some of these names are familiar to me,” she admitted. “Lord Henry Morrow... he’s a second son as well, yes? Isn’t his father an earl?”
“Aye, and so is Lord Tarley,” Burke replied. “He’s a bit of a prig. James wants his name off the list, but his father is the Earl of Southeby. He’s of age, he’s unmarried, so he stays on the list. Leave it to the gorg—Olivia to decide if she wants him.”
She nodded. “We need to see who on this list is in Town, and then do our best to get the others here as soon as possible.”
“Already on it,” Burke replied.
“We’ll make the rounds to the clubs this evening and see who we can find,” James explained, getting up off the sofa.
She nodded again. “When will the group arrive from Alcott, my lord?”
“Tomorrow,” he replied. “I just got word from George thismorning. He’s ecstatic about his surprise party.” By his tone, one would think the word “party” actually implied a particularly bad case of smallpox.
Tomorrow. Her heart thumped dully. That gave her only today to enjoy this time alone with them.
“What can I do to help with planning?” she asked, taking a sip of her coffee.
“Christ, do it all,” James replied.
She nodded. “I’ll see to it at once, my lord. I’m sure when your mother arrives, she’ll take the rest of the arrangements in hand.”
His shoulders stiffened at mention of his mother. He turned away, moving towards the door. “I’m out the rest of the morning,” he called over his shoulder. “You’re all on your own for luncheon.” He left without looking back.
15
Rosalie
Rosalie passed therest of the morning flitting between the company of Mrs. Robbins and Burke and Renley. The men broke their fast with her before taking her on a quick tour of the downstairs rooms of Corbin House. After the tour, the trio split to attend to various errands—Burke to the gunsmith, Renley to his officer’s club, and Rosalie to a working luncheon with Mrs. Robbins in the parlor. It was simple fare—sliced cold ham and salad, tomato soup, and spiced apple tea.
The housekeeper proved herself more than equal to the task of planning a society soiree. Rosalie sat back, thoroughly impressed, as Mrs. Robbins walked her through a range of details from floral designs, to guest lists, to ordering carved ices. The woman had accomplished all this in less than a day! “Of course, I will leave it to the family to settle on an overall style for the evening,” rushed Mrs. Robbins, shuffling a few stationery samples out of a messy folder.
“Lord James has asked me to tackle the particulars,” Rosalie replied, spreading some salted butter on a slice of toast. “If we leave it to him, it may have all the pomp of this luncheon.”
“Too true,” the housekeeper said with a snort. “Dinner and dancing, perhaps? That’s always sure to please. Or a night of performances? We could bring in a troupe from the London ballet, or the opera—oh—the circus!”
Next to Mrs. Robbins, a maid feverishly took notes, nodding along.
“Hmm...” Rosalie was thinking fast. This event must serve the dual purpose of satisfying the duke’s desire for spectacle and providing enough space for mingling and conversation. For they needed the freedom to nudge Olivia in the direction of the eligible bachelors. “What if we dispensed with a formal dinner?” She glanced from Mrs. Robbins to the maid. “I doubt His Grace would much enjoy being stuck in a chair through both dinneranda performance. He’d rather mingle with his guests.”
“Oh yes, our master has always been a social butterfly,” Mrs. Robbins said with a laugh.
“Perhaps we could have a sort of informal reception,” Rosalie offered. “To encourage a more celebratory atmosphere. No seated dinner. No endless rounds of courses and everyone stiffly waiting to turn.”
“Oh, what fun,” cooed the maid.
Mrs. Robbins leaned closer, giving her tea a stir. “And for the menu?”
Rosalie closed her eyes, picturing the night in her mind like a painting. “I’m imagining... footmen in the family livery weaving through the crowd, bright candlelight... trays of canapés and delicate French pastries.”
