switching from
one to another. ‘I say! That’s… that’s…’
‘Lady Pemberton?’
Like marionettes performing in a puppet
show, all three of the room’s occupants turned in unison to face
the door. The Marquis of Morvyn stood there, looking at Grace, who
stared back at him, appalled.
Hester, who knew nothing of her friend’s
history with Morvyn, recent or ancient, looked at the marquis in
surprise. ‘Lord Morvyn.’
Grace could think of nothing to say. Not one
word. She opened her mouth, but nothing emerged so she shut it
again, rather abruptly. He looked… Good Lord, he looked remarkably
handsome in his coat of blue superfine and biscuit-colored knee
breeches. He wore them with hessians rather than the more formal
ribboned shoes, but they looked well on him.
They looked well on him? Grace was
disgusted with herself. This was Morvyn and he was not her friend. She did
not care how he looked. Just the same, the lighting was far better
than it had been at the masquerade ball and she could not help but
notice the way his dark hair sprang in thick waves that would have
been curls had he favored the longer styles still being worn by the
older set. Or the fact that his dark brows arched appealingly. Or
that the aquiline nose and strong, firm mouth (do not think of his
mouth!) all combined together to make up an exceedingly find
looking man.
She refused to allow herself additional
study. What was he doing here, anyway?
The marquis took a step forward, ‘Lady
Pemberton, if I may have a word?’
‘There you are!’
Three heads swiveled at this, Hester
uttering a small shriek of surprise. Porter had followed Morvyn
into the room and was looking at the assembled group rather
quizzically.
‘Porter,’ Hester managed, her voice
faint.
‘I’ve been looking for you. If I hadn’t
followed Morvyn here to say hello, I would never have found you.
Funny place for a party. What are you all doing in here?’
What were they doing in here? The three
would-be conspirators looked at each other rather helplessly.
That was actually a very good question.
Chapter Four
As if on queue, three voices spoke at
once.
‘Actually we were just discussing the best
way to pickle pig’s trotters…’
‘I had a bit of a headache and we thought we
would find somewhere…’
‘It’s so warm in the ballroom, we found a
place to…’
There was a pause. Porter looked at Bertie
with raised eyebrows. ‘Pig’s trotters?’
Bertie smiled weakly, but it was Grace who
saved him. ‘He’s very fond of them, apparently. We were all quite
warm and decided to find a place to cool down. And Hester had a
slight headache. Such a nuisance.’ She tried very hard to ignore
Morvyn, hoping he would disappear. He showed no signs of moving,
however.
Porter strolled forward, clapping a hand on
the marquis’ back as he moved past him. ‘I see,’ he said, sounding
amused, ‘but I’m sorry to disappoint you Bertie. I doubt that my
wife knows how to pickle a pig’s anything. Perhaps we could apply
to our cook for a recipe.’
‘That would do the trick,’ Bertie agreed
heartily, relieved that he didn’t have to explain his extremely
off-the-cuff explanation any further. Bertie hated having to
improvise.
Hester was eyeing her husband doubtfully.
She had not seen him since the previous evening, when they had
shared a particularly strained meal. To say she was surprised to
see him was putting it mildly. He smiled at her and her heart
seemed to catch. How she had missed that smile! ‘I came to find
you. I hope your headache does not mean that I will not be able to
secure a dance?’
‘A dance,’ she repeated rather blankly.
‘Indeed.’ His blue eyes,
which had held no trace of warmth for weeks, were twinkling now and
his smile was an apology and a declaration in one. Hester moved
forward tentatively and he gathered up both her hands in his,
kissing each in turn. ‘I’m sorry. What you said the other night
about not trusting
one to another. ‘I say! That’s… that’s…’
‘Lady Pemberton?’
Like marionettes performing in a puppet
show, all three of the room’s occupants turned in unison to face
the door. The Marquis of Morvyn stood there, looking at Grace, who
stared back at him, appalled.
Hester, who knew nothing of her friend’s
history with Morvyn, recent or ancient, looked at the marquis in
surprise. ‘Lord Morvyn.’
Grace could think of nothing to say. Not one
word. She opened her mouth, but nothing emerged so she shut it
again, rather abruptly. He looked… Good Lord, he looked remarkably
handsome in his coat of blue superfine and biscuit-colored knee
breeches. He wore them with hessians rather than the more formal
ribboned shoes, but they looked well on him.
They looked well on him? Grace was
disgusted with herself. This was Morvyn and he was not her friend. She did
not care how he looked. Just the same, the lighting was far better
than it had been at the masquerade ball and she could not help but
notice the way his dark hair sprang in thick waves that would have
been curls had he favored the longer styles still being worn by the
older set. Or the fact that his dark brows arched appealingly. Or
that the aquiline nose and strong, firm mouth (do not think of his
mouth!) all combined together to make up an exceedingly find
looking man.
She refused to allow herself additional
study. What was he doing here, anyway?
The marquis took a step forward, ‘Lady
Pemberton, if I may have a word?’
‘There you are!’
Three heads swiveled at this, Hester
uttering a small shriek of surprise. Porter had followed Morvyn
into the room and was looking at the assembled group rather
quizzically.
‘Porter,’ Hester managed, her voice
faint.
‘I’ve been looking for you. If I hadn’t
followed Morvyn here to say hello, I would never have found you.
Funny place for a party. What are you all doing in here?’
What were they doing in here? The three
would-be conspirators looked at each other rather helplessly.
That was actually a very good question.
Chapter Four
As if on queue, three voices spoke at
once.
‘Actually we were just discussing the best
way to pickle pig’s trotters…’
‘I had a bit of a headache and we thought we
would find somewhere…’
‘It’s so warm in the ballroom, we found a
place to…’
There was a pause. Porter looked at Bertie
with raised eyebrows. ‘Pig’s trotters?’
Bertie smiled weakly, but it was Grace who
saved him. ‘He’s very fond of them, apparently. We were all quite
warm and decided to find a place to cool down. And Hester had a
slight headache. Such a nuisance.’ She tried very hard to ignore
Morvyn, hoping he would disappear. He showed no signs of moving,
however.
Porter strolled forward, clapping a hand on
the marquis’ back as he moved past him. ‘I see,’ he said, sounding
amused, ‘but I’m sorry to disappoint you Bertie. I doubt that my
wife knows how to pickle a pig’s anything. Perhaps we could apply
to our cook for a recipe.’
‘That would do the trick,’ Bertie agreed
heartily, relieved that he didn’t have to explain his extremely
off-the-cuff explanation any further. Bertie hated having to
improvise.
Hester was eyeing her husband doubtfully.
She had not seen him since the previous evening, when they had
shared a particularly strained meal. To say she was surprised to
see him was putting it mildly. He smiled at her and her heart
seemed to catch. How she had missed that smile! ‘I came to find
you. I hope your headache does not mean that I will not be able to
secure a dance?’
‘A dance,’ she repeated rather blankly.
‘Indeed.’ His blue eyes,
which had held no trace of warmth for weeks, were twinkling now and
his smile was an apology and a declaration in one. Hester moved
forward tentatively and he gathered up both her hands in his,
kissing each in turn. ‘I’m sorry. What you said the other night
about not trusting
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