Page 17 of Enticing Odds
“Even still,” Cressida said mildly, “perhaps you’re right; I ought to put more effort into my peonies.”
“Oh yes,” Mrs. Brenchley nodded vigorously, overdoing her attempt at sincerity. “They were quite faded at the last meeting.”
Thankfully, Mr. Brenchley cleared his throat impatiently, and Mrs. Brenchley turned her attention back to him, allowing him to lead her down to the dance floor.
“Loathsome woman,” Cressida hissed under her breath.
She very much wished to see her wee lamb of a doctor. The sight of his bashful, blushing face would do much to soothe her irritation at Mrs. Brenchley’s insult. Unfortunately, the next guest was not him.
Rather, it was her brother, Sir Frederick Catton.
“Why, Frederick, you look positively miserable,” she observed.
“I am miserable,” he grumbled, running a hand over his slicked back hair. “Miss Keene has rejected me again, with no explanation.”
“Truly? What a shame; she’s a lovely girl.” Cressida tutted. “Well, there are more than enough young ladies within to distract you from your sorrows.”
Frederick eyed her suspiciously as he walked past.
Cressida might have felt wary, if she thought that her thick-skulled brother might unravel his tangled affairs enough to discover that his dreams for a sweet and docile wife were being sabotaged by none other than his sister. She watched him descend the stairs, her heart warmed by the thought of his lonely, woebegone life.
“What did you tell this one?”
She spun about at the sound of the voice behind her.
“Arthur!” she gasped.
Her eldest son, the current Viscount Caplin, came forward to kiss her cheek.
“Why, your term isn’t over for a month!” She clutched at his arm in surprise. “What are you doing here?”
“Middlemiss and I decided we deserved a bit of a break. I think he’s already within, drinking like a fish and scandalizing the old biddies.” He grinned, a smug expression that had become all toofamiliar since he’d started at Oxford. Cressida didn’t much care for it.
But he was her son, her Arthur—who had once clutched at her hand with his tiny, chubby fingers only to now tower over her petite form—and she very much cared for him.
So she smiled back, even as she chided, “A bit of a break? Was the Easter holiday not enough?”
“As if you’ve the moral high ground. Come, Mama, what was it? What did you tell Miss Keene to scare her off of Uncle Frederick?”
“That his debts were ruinous,” Cressida said flatly.
“That’s it?” Arthur wrinkled his nose. “That would send a bit o’ soap running for the hills? Debts?” He paused, thinking. “I better tell Midder. He’s over head and ears with some sufferer here in town. Hell, I’d supposed you’d told her Uncle Frederick’s got the pox or something.”
“The pox!” Cressida echoed, one brow raised. “And this, I presume, is what you’ve chosen to spend your time at school learning about? What of poetry, what of philosophy? Should I have Wardle haul you and Middlemiss out of my ballroom and onto a train back to Oxford?”
Cressida snatched her fan from Wardle, who looked somewhat uncomfortable at the idea of dragging the young Viscount Caplin and his compatriot to Paddington Station at this hour.
“Oh Mama, come off it. We’ll behave, I promise. And then back to Oxford on the first train tomorrow.” Arthur gave her another peck on the cheek.
She feigned a stern look before sighing, “I suppose, then.”
“Besides,” he added cheekily, “itismy house, is it not?”
“Go on, then,” she said, smacking him fondly with her fan. “And don’t break anything, darling, please.”
With a grin that recalled once again her little boy, Arthur rushed down the stairs, giving Wardle a half-hearted salute as he passed.
“I do hate it when his little friends are here,” Cressida muttered to no one in particular. Which one was Middlemiss again? And what, in heaven’s name, was asufferer?
