Page 5 of An Execution, an Earl, and Miss Hughes
Lucian made to reply but his attention was momentarily distracted by the sight of Miss Hughes as she walked across the drawing room. Her composed beauty reminded him a camellia in winter, unexpected and impossible to overlook. He thought back on their brief conversation and the advice that she had offered him regarding Mrs Mifford, and decided there and then to indulge in a little fun.
“Every man thinks his mother-in-law tiresome,” Lucian replied easily to his friend, “I can assure you that I find Mrs Mifford most charming and look forward to discussing gardening matters in depth with her over dinner.”
Northcott raised a brow, then cast a surreptitious glance at Lucian’s glass to make certain he hadn’t bolted his brandy. Once assured that he wasn’t inebriated, the duke nodded his head.
“Of course,” he agreed, though his tone was faintly disbelieving.
Lucian was saved from having to espouse any further on his imaginary regard for Mrs Mifford, as the gong sounded for dinner. The couples in the room paired off—Miss Hughes, Lucian noted, took the arm of the jovial man who had earlier been speaking to Mr Mifford—leaving only Miss Charlotte Mifford without an escort.
Lucian gamely offered her his arm, an act which caused the poor chit to turn a violent shade of pale. Mrs Mifford might be a determined matchmaker but she wasn’t a very good one—Lucian imagined that Charlotte Mifford would expire of terror if he so much as looked at her too earnestly. Most men, he reflected, preferred not to be widowedbeforethe wedding.
Or not at all, if the sudden jolt of pain in his chest was anything to go by as he was reminded of his status as a widower.
Lucian was silent as he escorted Miss Mifford into the dining room, his mind occupied by thoughts of his late wife. Though it had been six years since her passing and time had softened the edges of his grief, he was still occasionally startled by sharp jolts of loss at her absence. Grief, he had learned over the years ,was not a linear thing with a final end point. Instead, it circled back endlessly; a journey that grew easier with time, perhaps, but one which never truly ended.
“I believe this is my seat, my lord,” Miss Mifford said, interrupting Lucian’s reverie.
As he bowed, Lucian allowed himself a wry smile at the obvious relief in her tone at finding that they were not to be seated together. He bid her good evening and found his own seat, beside Mrs Mifford. She did not note his arrival, herattention caught instead by the Dowager Duchess, who was laughing gaily at something Mr Mifford had just said.
Mrs Mifford’s eyes narrowed at the sound of the dowager’s laugh, her rosebud mouth pouting with annoyance. There was jealousy there, Lucian noted, tucking the observation away for later use.
The jolly looking gentleman who had escorted Miss Hughes to the dining room took the seat to Lucian’s left and quickly introduced himself as John Hughes, brother to Sir Charles who held a local baronetcy, father of Miss Sarah Hughes, and holder of a large farm nearby.
“I envy you your soil, Mr Hughes,” Lucian commented, “My main seat lies near Abergavenny and the land is really only good for farming sheep.”
“I’ll soon be farming sheep myself, if Silas Hardwick gets his way,” Mr Hughes replied darkly.
As Lucian hadn’t the faintest idea who this Silas Hardwick was, he was grateful when Mrs Mifford, interrupted them.
“Is it true, then?” she cried, leaning forward so she could see past Lucian. “Is he really planning to divert the stream?”
“It appears so,” Mr Hughes said, his dark eyes flashing with anger. “He had a surveyor in from Bath who let slip to Angus in The Ring, that he intends to cut a new course from the northern bend of the stream to direct the flow into a dam at his own property. And that solicitor of his has been sniffing around all month, looking for this parish record or that—trying to ascertain who owns what rights.”
“Why, that’s scandalous,” Mrs Mifford clutched a hand to her bosom. “That stream feeds several properties before it enters The Churn—including yours. He can’t be allowed to get away with it.”
“Several folk have already declared that they won’t let him,” Mr Hughes agreed, his tone so grim that Lucian quickly guessed that the grouping of threatening voices included Mr Hughes.
“It was bad enough when he appeared to be a philanderer,” Mrs Mifford took a large sip of wine from her glass. “Now he’s a thief as well. Our Mr Hardwick won’t be winning any prizes for popularity at the next village fête. Tell me, my lord, do you intend to stay for the fête? My niece Charlotte—you know Charlotte, the terribly pretty girl you escorted to dinner—bakes a wonderful raspberry roulade. You must stay to sample it!”
Lucian had to admire the swiftness with which Mrs Mifford directed the conversation back to her preferred subject. Had she not been born a woman, perhaps she might have thrived in politics—even Charles James Fox, for all his endurance and wine tolerance, might have surrendered to her before the dessert course.
“I am scheduled to leave in a fortnight,” Lucian demurred.
“I’m certain that I could convince The Ladies’ Society to bring forward the date,” she countered, parrying his shot like they were playing battledore and shuttlecock.
Realising that his opponent was unlikely to back down unless he employed more nefarious tactics—andbecause he was feeling petty—Lucian decided to pull out his trump card.
“I have heard that Georgianna is famous for her baking,” he fibbed - aware that the dowager duchess likely did not even know her way to a kitchen, let alone around one.
His comment hit the mark; Mrs Mifford's eyes narrowed in annoyance.
“Her Grace professes to be a master of many arts,” she sniffed before taking another large sip of her wine.
Sensing victory, Lucian leaned closer to her to whisper conspiratorially; "Including matchmaking. She seems to believe that your niece might make me a good match."
He sat back and watched with amusement as a range of emotions crossed Mrs Mifford's face; primarily anger and annoyance.
“I’m sureyousee,” Lucian continued, warming now to his act, “As a woman who has made successful matches—for not one butfourdaughters—that your niece and I would be terribly unsuited.”
