0800720903 (R) by Ruth Axtell Page A

away from Mr. Marfleet. Let him continue the conversation with her friend, with whom he seemed to manage to control his mocking tendencies.
    After bidding farewell to Miss Phillips and Miss Barry at their brick town house not far from Portland Place, Lancelot decided to return home on foot.
    He needed the time a walk would afford to mull over his encounter with the two young ladies. He’d been surprised—pleasantlyso—to find them on his street earlier. He’d been going back and forth about having asked his mother to invite them to one of her exclusive dinner parties.
    He cared nothing for such things as pedigree and portion, but his parents did. After quizzing him for a good quarter of an hour on the two young ladies, his mother had finally agreed to the invitation. “I suppose I should be thankful you are evincing the slightest interest in any young lady who is of sound mind and limb.” She sighed, picking up her pen. “You are seven-and-twenty and still unmarried. Your brother will no longer have any offspring. What is to become of the estate if you don’t settle down and start a family?”
    He turned off the familiar litany he’d heard all during his convalescence, thankful at least that his mother would issue the invitation.
    As he walked along Oxford Street, he wasn’t sure whether to be put off or annoyed with Miss Barry. Miss Phillips was a pleasant companion, but there was something about Miss Barry that drew him. Whether it was her flashing green eyes which could as quickly show annoyance as a hint of humor, or whether it was the way she listened to his tale of the doubts of belonging to his family, she evinced empathy and a depth of understanding he had not yet encountered in a young lady of the ton.
    But now he doubted his instincts, realizing he was probably reading more into her glances than they conveyed. The likeliest thing was that she despised him for his tendency to ironic humor. He hadn’t meant to tease her and regretted his words.
    With a shake of his head, he tried to dismiss their conversation from his mind. He had too many other things to think about to get stirred up over a young lady making her come-out in London.
    When he arrived home, he took up the journal he’d kept during his travels in India and went in search of his younger sister.
    He went first to the solarium which their parents had built to satisfy his hobby of cultivating plants and hers of painting them.
    Delawney sat on a stool before an easel in a narrow aisle hemmedin on either side with lush green foliage. Beside her stood a small table filled with brushes and tablets of watercolors.
    “There you are,” was all she said as he walked between the potted plants, the moist air enveloping him.
    “I hope I haven’t held you up.”
    Instead of replying, she asked, “What do you think?” Moving aside, she held up her brush to allow him to view the watercolor she was working on.
    It was a picture of the vine that grew from a pot she had placed beside the easel. Along its stem, a pink flower resembling a morning glory blossomed at intervals.
    He’d brought it back from Bengal. “Exquisite,” he said, satisfied that she’d reproduced it accurately. “The colors are perfect.”
    “I’m glad you approve.”
    “I do.”
    She let out a breath. “Good. I just need to put a few finishing touches on it.” She glanced up at him. “How are your notes coming?”
    He grimaced. “Slower than your watercolors.”
    “It’s because you are spending all your time chasing after Harold, trying in vain to stop him from his certain destruction.”
    “Don’t say that!”
    She raised an eyebrow at his retort.
    “Nothing is ‘certain’ in this life,” he said more gently.
    Her lips thinned in an uncompromising line. “You must let Harold squander his life as he wishes. Your preaching to him shan’t change him, you know.”
    Lancelot contemplated the soft tones of the watercolor. “I can’t just stand back and see him run