Page 8 of Nothing But a Rakehell
Glory slumped further in her chair. “What? No. I’m just . . . a bit tired.”
Her sister sat across from her and raised a skeptical brow. “Or perhaps you’ve heard that we have a new guest?”
Glory scowled.
Hope leaned in. “Are you hesitant to come down because of something you’ve heard? About Lord Keswick?”
“No. Not at all.” She thought of what he’d said. A rakehell, he’d called himself. “Why? Is there something I should know?”
“He has a bit of a reputation. Or, perhaps more than a bit of one.” Hope sighed and met Glory’s gaze straight on. “I want you to know, though, that the viscount is William’s friend. Despite what others say, William swears that he is harmless and promises that he will never do anything to cause the wrong sort of talk or to make you feel uncomfortable.”
“Tell Tensford that I appreciate his thinking of me, but that’s not why I want to stay in my rooms this evening.”
“Well, then?” Hope asked.
Glory didn’t answer.
“Fine,” Hope sighed again. “But you must meet him sometime.” She brightened suddenly. “I know. William is sure to wish to take his friend about the estate tomorrow. He’ll want to show off some of the improvements he’s working on. Why do we not ride out with them?” She grinned. “Then you can get to know the viscount in your natural element.”
Glory straightened in her chair. “Yes.” It was the perfect idea. “That sounds pleasant.” She smiled at her sister. “I’ll go.”
Hope breathed her relief. “Good. Rest tonight. I’ll see you at breakfast.”
Glory waved her off. Itwasthe perfect idea. She’d already met him out riding once—and it had gone tolerably well. If she could see him again, while mounted . . . she could make a good impression. Couldn’t she?
She wouldn’t go to breakfast. All she would need to do was to contrive to be in the saddle before the rest of them. They could spend the day riding and Lord Keswick would see her at her best. Her heart pounded. Another day—and he wouldn’t know.
Nothing would come of it, to be sure. She didn’t even want anything to come of it. He was a London fellow. A fixture in Society. A self-confessed rakehell. He would never be interested in a country girl like her. But for just a day, he might look at her, talk to her, and interact with her as if she were just like everyone else.
She wished Hope was still here so she could kiss her. It was a brilliant idea—and perhaps she could even manage to keep it going. In sudden good spirits, she stood and went to ring for the maid again. A bath before dinner would be the just the thing. She could wash her hair and dry it before a fire as she ate.
For the first time in a long time, she looked forward to tomorrow.
Chapter 3
Keswick entered the dining room to find Tensford and his wife there before him. He bid them a good morning and took a seat.
“Good morning, my lord.” The countess smiled at him. “Coffee or tea?”
“Tea, please,” he said gratefully.
“I hope you slept well?” she asked as she poured.
“I did.” Lamentably well. He’d woken more refreshed than he could remember. It had left him with a surfeit of energy and a fervent hope that Tensford could provide something to help dispel it.
Looking around, he wondered if the sister would show herself at last. There was a mystery there, he would guess.
She’d avoided the company last night, keeping to her room. Part of him had felt relieved. He could imagine her telling the story of their meeting with more than a little relish.
Honestly, though, Tensford knew quite a few of the ugly truths of his life—and was still a steadfast friend. Being the butt of the joke would be nothing next to all of that—and he had to admit, he was curious to see the girl again. She was pretty, prickly—and different from any other young lady he’d ever met. She might prove a distraction, though he’d have to tread carefully.
“Our cook has heard of your Irish connections, my lord,” Lady Tensford said with a smile. “Since she possesses a few of her own, she thought to plan a surprise for you this morning.”
A footman placed a dish before him and drew the cover away with a flourish, revealing his breakfast.
“Thank you,” he said reflexively. His stomach rumbled at the sight of the eggs, bacon, mushrooms and . . . “Colcannon!”
He dug into the treat. It had been fried up in patties for breakfast and he bit into the crispy outside and closed his eyes against the familiar taste of creamy potatoes and leafy greens inside. “Mmm . . .Delicious. That does bring back memories. My mother and I used to have special dinners in the nursery—sausages and colcannon and fresh brown bread.” He smiled at the countess. “Please pass my compliments and my thanks to your cook.”
