Page 27 of What's an Earl Gotta Do?
Mrs. Wriothesley steered her horse into a trot alongside them. “Did you see the article in The Times yesterday? The one about the Ladies’ Society? I almost fell into a fit of vapors!”
Anne flushed, thinking not about the article so much as the cartoon that had accompanied it. “I… I did see it.” She cast about for a change of subject. “Oh, forgive me. I forgot to perform introductions. Michael, this is Mrs. Augusta Wriothesley, my dear friend and the treasurer of the Ladies’ Society. Mrs. Wriothesley, this is Lord Morsley, whom I know I have mentioned to you before.”
“Mrs. Wriothesley, what a pleasure,” Michael said, inclining his head.
“Oh!” Mrs. Wriothesley’s mouth had fallen open. “Do you mean to say this is Lord Morsley? Your childhood friend?”
“The very one,” Anne said.
“Oh my gracious, I…” Mrs. Wriothesley’s eyes were keen as they travelled from Michael to Anne and back again. “I hadn’t realized Lord Morsley had returned from… Canada, was it?”
“That’s correct,” Michael said. “I only returned two days ago.”
“Well, it is a delight to meet you, my lord, and an even greater pleasure to have you back in England.” Mrs. Wriothesley wheeled her horse around. “Well, I’ll let you two young people enjoy yourselves,” she called, already cantering away. “Good afternoon!”
“Good… good afternoon,” Anne called after her, perplexed.
“Anne,” Michael asked, “did an article truly run in The Times about the Ladies’ Society?”
Anne cringed. “You could say that.”
“That’s wonderful! Do you have a copy?”
“Um, why do you ask?”
He gave her a strange look. “Because I want to read anything relating to the charity you founded, naturally.”
“I would rather you didn’t see it.” He glanced at her, confused, and Anne sighed. “It wasn’t just an article. There was also a cartoon. And…” She squeezed her eyes shut. “It wasn’t flattering.”
“What do you mean, it wasn’t flattering?” Michael took his eyes off the horses to sneak a glance at Anne. She was looking down at her hands, which were twisted into knots around the handle of the basket she held in her lap. His chest tightened. “What kind of jackass would criticize you for helping the poor?”
Anne’s knuckles were white on the handle of her basket. “You would be surprised.”
Michael didn’t care for the sound of that. “I should like to know what that means.”
“Whereas I would prefer not to discuss it,” she muttered.
“I insist you tell me.” She said nothing, so after a moment he added, “It would appear you have forgotten how bullheaded I can be.”
Her eyebrow twitched, and Michael knew he was treading on dangerous ground, because an eyebrow twitch was one of Anne’s signature expressions. It meant that, no matter how placid a face she might be presenting to the world, she was getting annoyed. “Oh, no. I haven’t forgotten.”
“Come on, Anne—”
She sighed. “I fear I’ve been a popular subject of mockery for the past three years. It all started with my pamphlet.”
“Your… your pamphlet?” What pamphlet? When had Anne authored a pamphlet?
Anne turned to him, incredulous. “Surely you recall it. I know I sent you a copy.”
And he had probably received it, too, but seeing as he hadn’t opened any of Anne’s letters, he had no idea what it was about. He cleared his throat. “Of course I recall it, I just… I cannot comprehend what someone might find objectionable about it. It was so, er, well-reasoned, and—”
This seemed to be the right thing to say, because Anne’s expression softened, and she reached out and squeezed his forearm. “Thank you, Michael. Although I’m sorry to report that your opinion was in the minority.”
“What exactly do you mean by that?”
Anne bit her lip. “I probably didn’t describe what happened next in my letters. I suppose I was trying to forget it ever occurred. But… well…” She swallowed thickly. “I was roundly mocked.”
“Mocked?” One of the horses snorted and pulled at the bit, and Michael noticed that his fists had hardened to iron. He forced himself to relax his grip upon the reins. “What do you mean, mocked?”
