A Rake by Any Other Name by Mia Marlowe Page B

go up there looking like—”
    â€œLike myself?” She was already through the garden gate with a swinging stride. “Mother, this is how I look. If anyone doesn’t like it, they can look the other way.”
    ***
    The coach wound through the woods and then burst into the open meadow, which was dotted with far too many sheep for Lady Antonia’s comfort. She lifted a scented hanky to her nose.
    Her lady’s maid, Martha Quimby, sniffed appreciatively. “Just smell that air, my lady.”
    â€œMust we?” Antonia asked. The country was so earthy sometimes, all shaggy mutton and sniffle-inducing grass and other appallingly fresh things she couldn’t identify. “Why anyone of sense ever leaves London is a mystery to me.”
    Unless it’s to go to Paris.
    Then the lane straightened and hundred-year-old oaks lined the way. At the end of the long drive, Somerfield Park beckoned, like a prize waiting to be claimed.
    Which it most certainly is , Antonia thought as she craned her neck to view it. And a worthy prize at that.
    â€œWell, there’s a proper place for Quality to lay their heads, if I do say so,” Quimby said. “Your young man must be swimming in lard, so he must.”
    â€œQuimby, please,” Lady Pruett admonished. “Speaking of money is so gauche.”
    Quimby rolled her eyes and sighed. Antonia could practically hear her thinking, If you don’t have it, speaking of money is better than nothing.
    The lady’s maid frequently spoke out of turn, but she was also a veritable magpie when it came to collecting information about the bon ton through her connections with other servants. She shared these shiny, often scandalous revelations with her employer with dependable frequency. That, combined with her absolute discretion when it came to being tight-lipped about the family she served, made Quimby worth her weight in gold.
    And Quimby was right about Somerfield Park. The manor house was a delight to the eyes, symmetrical and ornate, yet not fussy enough in its embellishments to seem ostentatious. The only thing out of place was the large lilac bush at one corner which looked as if someone had taken a hacksaw to it. No matter. Once Antonia was the marchioness, she’d have it taken out completely and replaced by topiary in the French style. After her stay in Paris, she adored all things français .
    â€œThe first house we passed on the estate looked a bit shabby, but it appears the main house is in fine repair,” Lord Pruett said.
    â€œWhat do we care about the outbuildings, Papa? Hartley invited us to stay at Somerfield Park. With his family.”
    The distinction was not lost on her. This was not a house party with dozens of guests. It was simply her family and his.
    â€œYou’ll be wearing a marchioness’s coronet before you know it, my lady,” Quimby said. “His lordship can hardly have declared himself more clearly.”
    â€œOf course, it would help if the man actually said the words,” Antonia muttered.
    But that was an oversight easily mended. If she didn’t know how to coax Hartley into saying them, she deserved to return to Surrey to live out her life as a dried-up spinster—which she might, if any suitor looked too closely at the canal shares her father intended to offer as her dowry. Of course, a family as old and venerable as the Barretts, with their vast estate and impeccable connections, didn’t need her dowry in any case.
    Besides, she loved Lord Hartley. She was almost sure of it. Sure enough to believe Lady Hartley had a fine ring to it indeed.
    ***
    Richard usually rode only in the early mornings, but his mother and grandmother had been pestering him about Miss Goodnight with sidelong looks and outright entreaties all day. He escaped to the stables after luncheon and took Pasha, his favorite Arabian, out for a second punishing ride along the hedgerows. The vigorous activity soothed