Page 110 of The Viscount's Seduction
“What are you doing here, Sirena? It was to be a surprise.”
“Keep my secret, I beg you, my lady.”
She still wanted answers. “We shall talk later,” she whispered and then said more loudly, “I’ll leave you to go back to your work, sir.”
He bowed and went back to his chalking.
Sirena caught up with Perry near the door and hustled her out. Whether Perry knew about the search for Donegal, she didn’t know. She didn’t want to inspire a visit from Shaldon, not yet, not until she’d had a chance to ask questions of her own. If her husband could keep secrets, so could she.
“I’m sorry. It was temptation’s evil bite that made me do it. I just had to see.”
“You were talking to that man.”
Aye, Perry was Shaldon’s daughter. She would need to tread carefully. “I interrupted him and he was being polite only. I don’t even know his name. I was not being unfaithful to Bakeley.”
That brought a smile.
“Old Nate said he’s called Desmond. Come,” Perry said. “I heard the front knocker moments ago. We’ll have a visitor.”
Her mind was jumbled with thoughts of the artist in that room and the earlier spat with her new husband. She needed to find out Bakeley’s plan. She needed to find her way back to the ballroom and see what the man there was plotting.
And now to be poked and prodded by visitors coming to see Bakeley’s scandalous new bride while she was tossed and scattered on the inside. It was a trial, it was.
She straightened her skirts. “Will I do?”
Perry squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. “Like this.”
A laugh bubbled out and Perry joined in, linking arms. “Don’t worry, Sirena.”
In the corridor, a footman stopped them with news that the florist had come with the racks and vases for the next night’s ball.
Sirena saw Perry’s consternation. Perry was one to keep a firm grip on all phases of the planning, so much like her father and Bakeley.
“Go, Perry, and see to it. I shall brave this tiresome visitor alone.”
“Are you sure? Oh, you’ll be fine. It may be Lady Hackwell. She did say she would visit.”
Outside the drawingroom a footman handed her a salver with a card.
Her heart sank all the way to the leather heels of her new shoes and then rose again sweeping up every morsel of anger in her. Her hand shook with it, her lungs squeezing tight.
“Just the one caller, my lady.”
She eased in a breath. The footman watched the door to the drawing room. And though his gaze had not lighted directly upon her once, she sensed he’d seen her discontent.
That wasn’t good. She was supposed to play an English lady, not an Irish milkmaid. She set her face and entered.
The door, she noted, did notsnickclosed behind her and some of her tension eased. The footman was keeping watch.
Across the room, Sterling Hollister studied a fine piece of Sevres porcelain on the mantel. Wide shoulders, narrow hips, dark hair. It could have been Bakeley, but there was so much more true strength in her husband.
The oiled hinges of Shaldon House did not creak, nor did her heels clack on the polished floor, yet Hollister turned.
She stopped a few paces inside the door and curtsied. “Lord Glenmorrow.”
He approached, too eagerly she thought, and came close enough to bow over the hand she put out to keep him away.
“Cousin Sirena.” His beady eyes traveled up and down her person too boldly. “I must congratulate you on your marriage. You’ve done well for yourself.”
