Page 6 of An Execution, an Earl, and Miss Hughes
Mrs Mifford's face was a picture of confusion as she internally battled between her original plan and Lucian’s overt flattery. In the end, her desire to be recognised as superior won out and she fluttered her eyelashes demurely.
“I couldn’t imagine anyone less suited to be your bride than Charlotte,” she agreed, rolling her pretty blue eyes at the very idea.
Their conversation was interrupted as a stream of footmen arrived to serve the first course of soup. Lucian was savouring his victoryandthe excellentSoup à la Reine, when Mrs Mifford interrupted his enjoyment of both.
“If not Charlotte, then who?” she questioned in a whisper.
Lucian stifled a sigh as he set his spoon down. He had congratulated himself too soon; as he had only half heeded Miss Hughes’ advice, he had only himself to blame. He had made Mrs Mifford believe that she was the one who had decided Charlotte was not suited to be his bride, but had not offered her another assignment to occupy her attention.
Not another assignment, Lucian corrected himself, another match. His eyes alighted on Miss Hughes—who was laughing gaily with the duchess—and he felt himself smile as he made a decision.
“I am rather taken by Miss Hughes,” Lucian confided in a whisper.
He’d meant it as a distraction for Mrs Mifford, a clever ploy to steer her away from poor Miss Charlotte—but as the wordsleft his mouth, something strange happened. He realised he didn’t entirely mind the idea.
In fact, the thought of spending more time with Miss Hughes brought with it a faint thrill of excitement—which was a novelty, for Lucian hadn’t felt much at all the past five years.
Mrs Mifford’s eyes lit up; “I was just thinking what a fine pairing you’d make. She’s a lovely, sensible young lady, with experience running a large household and raising young boys.”
Miss Hughes also had dancing eyes, a come-hither smile, and a bottom one could perch a pint on—but Lucian refrained from informing Mrs Mifford of this. And, besides, as she was the one who had suggested Lucian redirect Mrs Mifford’s course, it was only right that she join him in the slipstream.
“My dear Mrs Mifford, I beg you humbly for your help in courting the girl,” he solemnly replied, raising his glass in toast.
Being a little wicked had never felt more fun.
CHAPTER THREE
SARAH WAS DRESSEDin her best walking dress, a newly trimmed bonnet atop her blonde curls. She did not usually put such effort into her appearance but, then, she did not usually get invited on outings with devilishly handsome earls.
Not that she was dressing up for the Earl of Ashford’s benefit, of course. She merely wished to present her best self on the outing to Long Acres that Mrs Mifford had organised, so that she could maintain her slight upper-hand on the man. It was all she had, after all.
The earl was handsome, cultured, and obscenely wealthy. While Sarah…well, Sarah was a spinster worrying over the opinion of a man who probably hadn’t given her a second thought.
He certainly hadn’t seemed to care for her company last night at dinner, for he had spent all six-courses cozying up to Mrs Mifford, of all people.
The party for the outing consisted of Sarah, Mary and her husband, Mrs Mifford, Charlotte, and Lord Deverell. Mr Leek—usually aloof, bordering on rude—was all effusive smiles and warm welcomes as the group disembarked the carriage.
“Miss Hughes, a pleasure,” he intoned, bowing over Sarah’s hand. She was a little shocked by both his silky manners and the fact that he knew her name. He had never once, in her five and twenty years living in Plumpton, acknowledged her existence.
“Lord Deverell, I am humbled to host you again.”
Mr Leek near elbowed Sarah out of his way in his haste to greet the earl, his lean, satin clad frame bowing so low that his nose almost touched the floor. Sarah hid a smile as Mr Leek revealed his charming manners to be only temporary.
Lord Deverell offered the horticulturist a nod. “Your gardens moved me, Mr Leek,” he stated, his grey gaze catching Sarah’s. “I was not expecting to find such beauty in Plumpton.”
Sarah lowered her eyes to the floor, lest the earl noted the pink stain on her cheeks. If she hadn’t known any better, she might have thought him flirting.
“Our bucolic backwater can offer up some surprises,” Mr Leek agreed. “Come, let us begin our tour.”
The gardens at Long Acres were as pompous and precise as Mr Leek. Neat graveled paths wound through beds and borders stuffed with elaborately labeled rare blooms. At the centre of the gardens stood Mr Leek’s pride and joy, a hothouse containing specimens from the Orient and South Americas.
“Are you impressed with Mr Leek’s blooms?” the earl whispered, as he fell into step beside Sarah.
“I’m more impressed by whatever it was you did to deter Mrs Mifford, my lord.” Sarah answered, managing to keep her tone mild even as her heart skipped a beat. “She hasn’t come near you all morning.”
Mrs Mifford had, instead, attached herself to Mr Leek—who looked none too pleased by her company—and was leading the tour through the grounds as though she herself had grown each plant from seed.
The earl gave a pleased smile at her praise, which caused Sarah’s stomach to twist a little with longing. He looked boyishly handsome when he smiled.
