The Homecoming by M. C. Beaton, Marion Chesney Page B

banished. Tea was served. Lady Verity and Celia Charter were seated on a backless sofa on either side of the duke. Verity was trying to catch his attention, but Celia was prattling away, ogling and flirting, while her parents looked on with approval. Sarah Walters was holding a teacup half-way to her lips and gazing dreamily out of the window. Her father kept darting her vicious little looks, as if he would like to slap her back into the real world.
    Gerald and Lizzie were seated side by side on another sofa. The rest of the house party were assembled on chairs, balancing cake plate and teacup while sitting up rigidly straight. Only commoners allowed their bodies to touch the back of the chair.
    “I really did not want to come,” confided Gerald.
    “Why not?” asked Lizzie.
    “Look about you, Miss Lizzie. I am quite outshone by Severnshire. Every lady wants to become a duchess.”
    “Not I!” said Lizzie.
    “Why not? You would make a very pretty little duchess.”
    “Thank you, sir.”
    “Like a Dresden figurine.”
    “You put me to the blush. May I remind you that Dresden figurines do not have red hair.”
    “They should have hair like yours. But now I think of it, they are too insipid-coloured. Your hair is like a flame, like a glorious autumn, like a winter sunset.”
    “I beg you to stop,” cried Lizzie. “I am not in the way of receiving compliments, and my head will be quite turned if you go on.”
    “Then we will talk of prosaic things. Did you have a long journey to get here?”
    “Not at all. I live hard by. In fact, my family once lived here.”
    “Of course. Beverley. The Beverleys of Mannerling. I have heard of your family. Your sisters all married great men. You have been lying to me, Miss Lizzie. You must want to outshine your sisters and become a duchess.”
    “Not I! Severnshire is very grim, I think, and quite old.”
    “You are too hard. We first met him at Dover. My parents had come to meet me after my return from the Grand Tour. He was all that was amiable.”
    “I should think anyone would feel amiable with your parents around,” said Lizzie, noticing the way that Colonel and Mrs. Parkes were chatting happily with Miss Trumble.
    “Who is that lady you came in with?”
    “That is Miss Trumble. She was my governess but I suppose she is now my chaperone. Mama is in Bath taking the waters.”
    “Miss Trumble looks much too grand to be anyone’s governess. Her gown is of the first stare. Lady Beverley must be a generous employer.”
    But Lizzie did not want to go on talking about Miss Trumble in case she betrayed that lady’s identity.
    *   *   *
    Peter hovered nervously outside the drawing-room. He had not seen Sarah since her arrival. He had been sent into Gloucester the day before when she arrived to attend to business. That had involved leaving at dawn and not arriving back until everyone else was in bed.
    He longed to see her. He had a letter in his hand for the duke which had arrived that morning. It concerned a boundary dispute on the duke’s home estates. He was quite well able to deal with the matter himself, but in his longing to see Sarah again he had persuaded himself that his master would want to attend to it personally.
    At last he smoothed his hair and squared his shoulders and walked into the drawing-room. Everyone looked at him. Peter’s eyes flew straight to Sarah. She looked vaguely at him, a little frown creasing her brow, and then she retreated back into her dream in which the duke was proposing marriage to her. The fact that she had made not the slightest push to attract the duke’s attention did not strike her as ridiculous. Sarah preferred dreams to reality. In dreams people were always charming and said all the things one wanted them to say.
    The duke rose, interrupting Celia’s prattle and said, “Mr. Bond. You have something for me?”
    They walked to a corner of the drawing-room. Peter handed him the letter. The duke read it with surprise. He was