A Kiss from the Heart by Barbara Cartland Page B

Londonderry, my Lord.”
    â€œAh, so she is in London for the Season – ”
    He knew that the energetic Duchess would keep his mother fully occupied.
    â€œI believe so, my Lord.”
    The Earl nodded and proceeded to the study. The many ominous green ledgers were still there untouched as was the pile of correspondence that seemed to mount daily.
    â€˜Perhaps I should request Miss Jenkins, Papa’s old secretary, to come here to deal with all this,’ he sighed, having no intention of taking responsibility for it himself.
    He sat down in a chair at the desk and slid a gold-embossed invitation towards him. It was from the Marquis of Strathclyde, asking both him and his mother to a ball.
    He sighed as he realised that even if they did attend, he would still be under the strict code of mourning that forbade dancing or conspicuous consumption of alcohol.
    A cough alerted him to Monkhouse standing on the threshold of the room.
    â€œYes?” he asked.
    â€œWill you be requiring luncheon today, my Lord?”
    â€œNo thank you, Monkhouse,” he answered, thankful that his headache appeared to have disappeared at last. “I am going out shortly and will ring for a cold beef sandwich if I require one on my return.”
    â€œShall I now arrange for the carriage to be brought round, my Lord?”
    â€œNo,” said the Earl, with a hint of a smile playing around his lips. “I intend to walk to my destination.”
    The valet backed out of the room and left the Earl to his thoughts. He picked up the invitation once more and idly twirled it round, wondering what the afternoon held in store for him.
    *
    At a little after two-thirty, the Earl picked up his top hat and made himself presentable in the ornate mirror that hung over the hall table.
    He now viewed his reflection with more than a little satisfaction – considering that he had felt terrible when he awoke, the face staring back at him was clean, handsome and attractive.
    Brook Street was awash with people, carriages and horses as he strode the short distance to Mount Street. He moved briskly through the throng and hoped that Miss de Montfort would be at home.
    If she were not, he had already decided to visit his Club for a pleasant afternoon reading the newspapers.
    On his arrival the Earl pulled hard on the bell that he heard ring somewhere in the depths of the house.
    His heart began to race unexpectedly as he heard footsteps coming towards him and the door swung open.
    The de Montfort butler was an imposing figure with a face like a funeral director.
    â€œYes, my Lord?”
    The Earl marvelled at how the man seemed to have the ability to divine the status of visitors even before they had produced a calling card.
    â€œIs Miss de Montfort at home?” he now enquired, proffering his card.
    â€œPlease come into the hall and I shall enquire, my Lord,” replied the butler, looking at the card with obvious relish.
    The hall was not dissimilar in proportions to that of the Earl’s own London home. There was an oil painting of a rather stern-looking gentleman astride a horse on the far wall and an unlit chandelier hung overhead.
    The butler reappeared and immediately bade him to accompany him to the drawing room.
    As he walked through the door and announced him, Serena de Montfort, who had artfully arranged herself on the pale-blue sofa to considerable effect, turned her head and dropped the needlework frame from her hands.
    â€œLord Templeton! Such a delightful surprise!” she cried, her blue eyes sparkling like glazed china. “Morton, bring us some tea and cakes at once!”
    The butler disappeared with a bow, leaving the Earl towering over the delicate figure of Serena.
    â€œPlease, sit down beside me,” she urged, patting the sofa. “I am so very glad you decided to pay me a call.”
    â€œIt was a fine day and I found myself desirous of seeing you again, and I confess, I have not been able