The Counterfeit Mistress by Madeline Hunter Page A

about Marielle Lyon, for example. Kendale would have never sought him out to ask those questions, but if the duke were being imposed on him like this . . .
    â€œFine.”
    Southwaite blinked, astonished. He glanced cautiously over at Ambury whose smile did not waiver but whose eyes turned curious. “Fine? You do not mind?”
    â€œIt is your house and your food. I trust you do not think I am so rude as to object to the guests you invite, or curse them for their sins while sitting with them at your table.”
    â€œNo. Of course not. That goes without saying,” Southwaite muttered. “I assure you, no one thought that you—”
    â€œI told Southwaite here that you did not have to be
warned
.” Ambury looked down the room and caught his wife’s eye. Something passed between them in that look that made Lady Ambury visibly exhale with relief.
    L ady Ambury had worried about the wrong guest, Kendale noted with satisfaction toward the end of dinner. She spent so much time keeping the other members of her own family from embarrassing her that she barely knew he was there.
    Lady Sophie concluded early on that Lydia had been invited for the eligible viscount in the party, which meant she, Sophie, was expected to be the eligible Penthurst’s partner. Her graying hair, dressed in the curls of her youth, dipped toward Penthurst while she plied him with wine and innuendo.
    Since they did not sit far from Kendale he overheard much of their conversation. To say that Lady Sophie flirted with a duke who at thirty-two was half her age would not be an exaggeration. Penthurst took it in stride and after his third glass of wine even flattered her back.
    â€œI have no idea why I am here, and invited on such short notice. Do you?” Lady Lydia asked softly. She sat beside him on his left looking her normal pale, remote, soulful self. Dark hair and eyes drew attention to her face, but her eternally impassive expression discouraged any intimacy. Indeed, in the last few years talking to Lady Lydia had become a chore, much like dragging a cart up a muddy hill.
    He had therefore neglected her, so entertaining did he find the conversation across the table and down two places.
    He gave her his attention now, lest she add to the rumors that said he lacked social polish. “You are here to balance the table. This meal is not about you, or me, but about him.” He gestured to Penthurst.
    â€œThat is a relief. I thought perhaps my brother had convinced Cassandra to do some matchmaking.”
    â€œIf so, I was not told of it. I doubt they would ever try to match us. I knew you when you were a child, and could never think of you in that way.”
    â€œNot matchmaking with
you
, Kendale. What a notion. That would be a match fit for hell.”
    Indeed it would be, but even he thought it rude of her to say so outright. As a schoolgirl Lydia had been an impish and spirited bright-eyed, dark-haired child. Now in her twenties, she had retreated into herself with maturity in this peculiar way. Like a sphinx, she watched the world, and wore the smile of a statue if she reacted at all.
    She worried Southwaite to no end with this behavior, although Kendale sometimes wondered if it was all a feint. There had been other worries in the last year regarding her that had to do with gambling and other behavior that indicated Lady Lydia could be most impish still. Kendale had reason to know that when Lydia had an accomplice that brought out the worst—one like Cassandra, the new Lady Ambury—Lydia surrendered to the impulse to be very naughty.
    â€œYou mean Penthurst, then,” he said. “I would be surprised if your brother has such designs. They may be friends of sorts again, but there is some bad business between them still.” There should be, at least.
    â€œI hope it is bad enough to keep my brother from getting ideas. I do not like Penthurst. I do not like any dukes, now that I think