Page 27 of Nothing But a Rakehell
Glory gritted her teeth, then smiled. “It was a childhood injury, I fear.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry.” Miss Ruddock said it with sympathy, but her friend looked horrified.
“I fear Lady Glory has so many sterling qualities, fate felt it necessary to balance the scales in favor of the rest of us,” Keswick announced. He bowed over her hand and excused himself. The two girls exchanged glances and followed.
Glory sighed and turned as her sister called her once more.
More guests arrived as the day progressed and Glory was expected to be present and presented. The viscount largely left her alone after that, but he kept true to his word. He and Sterne lingered, separate, but near, and they treated the fact of her limp so casually that everyone else was forced to follow their cue and do the same.
Grateful for their efforts, she stiffened her spine, smiled, exchanged pleasantries, greeted everyone and watched her sister beam at her in approval.
She also kept a close watch on the viscount. No hardship, there. Lord Keswick stood just a tad taller than the other men in the room. The sharp angles in his face gave him the edge in masculine beauty.
That was not why she watched him, of course. She was looking for ways to return the favor, trying to discover how she could help him in turn. She wasn’t alone in staring after him, though—and she knew it was more than his title that drew so many female gazes.
Some watched him with caution and disdain. Clearly, his reputation as a rakehell was well established. Several women watched him with wary eyes and tried to keep out of his way. Some watched with a knowing, speculative manner. And quite a few others gazed after him in fascination. Glory could scarcely fault any of them. Keswick gave off the most intriguing aura—danger and allure wrapped in tight smiles and just-slightly-distant charm.
She breathed a sigh of relief when she finally escaped upstairs to change for dinner. She needed peace. She didn’t find it, however. Instead she stared at herself in the mirror and wondered how she could have been so wrong. She wasn’t similar to Lord Keswick. He wasn’t going to need her help. He was entirely at ease in company and able to turn the mood of an entire room. He was everything she was not. Everything Hope and others wished her to be.
The thought exhausted her. But she would not give up so soon. His interventions had made a difference. She’d been treated with the same deference as the other young ladies, for the most part. There was still the odd stare and whisper, but they were less numerous and open than usual.
She allowed Hope’s maid to assist with her hair and she wore a new gown of soft green with gold trimmings that darkened her eyes and made them look less . . . odd. She forced herself to join the company again, taking the servant’s stairs so that she wouldn’t be seen carefully maneuvering her way down.
She timed it perfectly, arriving just as dinner was called—but then she had to fight to keep her shoulders from slumping when she saw she was to be seated at dinner between Miss Myland and Mr. Lycett.
The elderly lady was companion to Tensford’s aunt. Glory summoned a smile for her. “How are you enjoying the new arrangements at Brockweir?” she asked.
Miss Myland shrugged. “The food is decent, even if the company is not,” she said. She addressed herself to the soup, slurping it with haste. She finished before Glory had managed more than a couple of spoonfuls, then dropped her chin to her chest and appeared to doze as she awaited the next course.
With a sigh, Glory turned to Mr. Lycett. She knew he was an enthusiastic hunter. She asked him about his mount, thinking they could converse about training.
“I’m not surprised that you ask, my lady. My Apollo is the best-trained horse in the north of England. Such stamina he has—and it is only surpassed by the steadiness of his temperament. I don’t think he’s ever flinched at a horn at his ear or a hound at his heel.”
“That is wonderful in a horse trained for the hunt, I’m sure. My own Poppy is steady and stalwart as well. She—”
But Mr. Lycett was not interested in hearing about her experiences. Instead, she was treated to an enthusiastic monologue about the superiority of his horse, his dogs, the many thrilling hunt days his local club got up to and the time he’d been invited to join the famous Quorn for one of theirs. Her spirits grew lower as he talked over her comments and ignored her attempts to change the subject.
So much for Keswick’s theory that the man had been making up to her, she thought acidly. Worse, she could see the viscount over Mr. Lycett’s shoulder, seated between Miss Munroe and Miss Ruddock, looking irritatingly handsome and apparently enjoying an amiable conversation with each lady in turn.
When Hope stood and called the ladies to withdraw, Glory was the first out of the door.
She settled in a dark corner and let the women chatter on without her. Blessed silence held in her hideaway and she hid away for nearly a quarter of an hour before Miss Munroe pulled a chair over and took a seat beside her.
“Forgive me for disturbing you,” she said with real feeling. “I saw you with my cousin at dinner and felt I owed you an apology. I surmise, from his fervor, that he got started on his favorite topic.”
Glory shot her a sour look and the girl laughed.
“Oh, dear. I have tried to convince him that conversation should be a shared endeavor, but the lesson does not seem to take root. I am sorry.”
“You should not take on the burden of his crimes.”
“Crimes? Was it so bad?”
“It was definitely an assault on both my appetite and my ears.”
The girl laughed. “Curse him. He does go on. It drives my mother mad. She’s so grateful to have him included in the festivities over here.”
“And out of her hair?” Glory asked with a grin.
