Page 41 of Lady Mary's May Day Mischief
Langdon’s collection was extensive, old copies of law books and Latin references. A few novels, Defoe and Swift, a few folios of criticism of Donne and Milton. Diderot. A treasure trove.
“Good afternoon, my lady.”
She turned to find Langdon quite hale and hearty, save for the arm that he bound in a black sling close to his chest. Millicent who had a quiet golden mien to her had matched this man well. With his thick brown hair and silver eyes, he put Mary in mind of an avenging angel. Please heaven, he wished no vengeance on her.
“Please do come sit with me. I gave instructions for tea.”
“Thank you, sir. I do not wish to stay long.”
“But I insist.”
She could be polite, but she wished to be brief—and to be gone.
“Brandy, then?” He baited her.
She had more gumption than he assumed. “Excellent.”
He made no face, but marched across the room to a table where she would have sworn maps should be instead of an exquisitely cut glass brandy bottle and matching glasses. He poured. Liberally.
If she drank all that, she’d never live to leave the room.
With two tumblers of umber liquor in his hands, he motioned toward the floor-length windows. “Shall we sit in the sun?”
What there was of it, yes. The weather had not improved, the chill of spring an odd unsettling that kept her in a quiet panic to survive this challenge she faced.
He strode across the room beside her, his expression hospitable but his posture rigid. When he stood before two wide winged chairs upon which rays of weak sun did shine, he cocked a brow at her.
She joined him. Settled, she met his gaze. The dark flash of his eyes was like quicksilver, fluid, curious and unnerving. She cleared her throat. “I’ve come for a task, long overdue.”
“I assumed so.” He took a long draught. “Drink up. I think you need it.”
One thing she was not was a mouse about alcohol. She liked her brandy, as any discerning woman should. So she took a delightful drink of what was—she knew by rich notes upon her tongue—quite excellent brandy.
“I’ve come, sir, to ask your pardon.”
He stared at her, his glass dangling from his fingertips, one leg crossed over the other.
Very well. She shifted. “I owe you an apology for what was a very bad mistake on my part.”
“She asked you to do it, did she not?”
“Not come to you, no. This is my effort.”
“I meant the act. The charade.”
“Yes. But—”
“You had done this sort of thing before?”
“Yes and quite well, too. That’s not what I mean, sir. What I do mean is that my actions were done with the best intentions.”
“Though not the best results.”
“No. Millicent regretted the entire thing immediately. She disliked the folly of it and wished it never had happened.”
“As did we all.” He took a quick sip. “So? Why are you here? Really?”
“Millicent tells me she has written to you but you do not reply.”
