sheet of foolscap.
“Why, Lord Hadley, I fear you are going to ruin my reputation…” The dowager Countess of Becton paused to lay a gloved hand
on Lucas’s sleeve. “For throwing a boring party.”
“I am always happy to oblige a lovely lady,” he replied, lifting her frail fingers to his lips.
“So I have heard,” said the countess dryly. “But unless you have an interest in archaeology, you ought not waste your charms
on me. I’m old enough to be an artifact.”
“A very well-preserved artifact,” murmured Lucas. “I would never guess that you and my mother were close friends at school.”
“It was your
grand
mother, as well you know.”
“Impossible.”
“Naughty man.” Lady Becton chuckled. “I see why you have no lack of willing partners for your head-over-heels escapades.”
Lucas winced inwardly. Put that way, he sounded like one of the acrobats at Astley’s Circus.
The dowager squinted through her quizzing glass. “Which begs the question of why you are here. A cello recital does not attract
a very risqué crowd. Indeed, most of my guests are not a day under sixty, and bluestockings to boot.”
“Maybe I’m interested in improving and expanding my mind,” he answered.
Light glinted off the gold-rimmed lens. “That appears to be the only portion of your anatomy that needs any such attention.”
Lucas choked down a laugh. Age had not dulled the dowager’s sharp sense of humor. He seemed to recall mention that the lady
had been quite a hellion in her day.
“But if you are looking for intellectual stimulation, you have come to the right place. Do let me introduce you to some of
my close friends. It isn’t every day that the old ladies get to ogle a flesh-and-blood rake.” Lady Becton drew him toward
the main drawing room. “Let us hope that none of them faints dead on the spot.”
“Indeed. At the moment, I have enough sins laid at my feet.”
She silenced him with a slap of her fan. “And enough ink blackening the front page of the newspaper.” Her brow arched. “Tell
me, are you planning to do anything shocking?”
He assumed an angelic smile. “I assure you, my intentions are above reproach.” The last notes of a Boccherini concerto floated
out from the music room. “However, like your virtuoso musicians, I sometimes feel the urge to improvise.”
“Well, if you have the urge to submerge yourself in another scandal, the least you can do is let me watch.”
Before Lucas could reply, he was led to a small group of ladies standing near the tea table at the far end of the room. It
was hard to tell which they were enjoying more—the lemon tarts or the lively discussion on the cross-pollination of tropical
fruit trees.
At his approach the voices rose a notch higher, and in a twittering of ostrich plumes, several of the ladies took cover behind
the potted palms.
Like hens fleeing from a fox
.
The others, however, stood their ground with admirable sangfroid as Lady Becton moved down the line, performing the introductions.
The last in the group was a short, silver-haired female who had wandered off for a moment to study a framed set of botanical
prints.
“Lady Ariel.” The dowager tapped her friend’s shoulder. “If you can tear yourself away from
Cannabis savita
, I should like to introduce you to Lord Hadley—you know, the champion swimmer.”
Lucas heard a splash behind him as someone spilled her tea.
“I am acquainted with the gentleman.” The lady slowly turned, her oversized steel-rimmed spectacles giving her the air of
a startled owl. “We met briefly at Lady Wilton’s ball. In addition to your sporting skills, sir, you have quite a gift for
reciting entertaining poetry.”
“I am flattered that you recall such details,” replied Lucas as he lifted her hand to his lips.
Appalled
was a far more accurate word. The limericks she had overheard were bawdy enough to make a sailor blush.
“It’s hard to forget such pithy
“Why, Lord Hadley, I fear you are going to ruin my reputation…” The dowager Countess of Becton paused to lay a gloved hand
on Lucas’s sleeve. “For throwing a boring party.”
“I am always happy to oblige a lovely lady,” he replied, lifting her frail fingers to his lips.
“So I have heard,” said the countess dryly. “But unless you have an interest in archaeology, you ought not waste your charms
on me. I’m old enough to be an artifact.”
“A very well-preserved artifact,” murmured Lucas. “I would never guess that you and my mother were close friends at school.”
“It was your
grand
mother, as well you know.”
“Impossible.”
“Naughty man.” Lady Becton chuckled. “I see why you have no lack of willing partners for your head-over-heels escapades.”
Lucas winced inwardly. Put that way, he sounded like one of the acrobats at Astley’s Circus.
The dowager squinted through her quizzing glass. “Which begs the question of why you are here. A cello recital does not attract
a very risqué crowd. Indeed, most of my guests are not a day under sixty, and bluestockings to boot.”
“Maybe I’m interested in improving and expanding my mind,” he answered.
Light glinted off the gold-rimmed lens. “That appears to be the only portion of your anatomy that needs any such attention.”
Lucas choked down a laugh. Age had not dulled the dowager’s sharp sense of humor. He seemed to recall mention that the lady
had been quite a hellion in her day.
“But if you are looking for intellectual stimulation, you have come to the right place. Do let me introduce you to some of
my close friends. It isn’t every day that the old ladies get to ogle a flesh-and-blood rake.” Lady Becton drew him toward
the main drawing room. “Let us hope that none of them faints dead on the spot.”
“Indeed. At the moment, I have enough sins laid at my feet.”
She silenced him with a slap of her fan. “And enough ink blackening the front page of the newspaper.” Her brow arched. “Tell
me, are you planning to do anything shocking?”
He assumed an angelic smile. “I assure you, my intentions are above reproach.” The last notes of a Boccherini concerto floated
out from the music room. “However, like your virtuoso musicians, I sometimes feel the urge to improvise.”
“Well, if you have the urge to submerge yourself in another scandal, the least you can do is let me watch.”
Before Lucas could reply, he was led to a small group of ladies standing near the tea table at the far end of the room. It
was hard to tell which they were enjoying more—the lemon tarts or the lively discussion on the cross-pollination of tropical
fruit trees.
At his approach the voices rose a notch higher, and in a twittering of ostrich plumes, several of the ladies took cover behind
the potted palms.
Like hens fleeing from a fox
.
The others, however, stood their ground with admirable sangfroid as Lady Becton moved down the line, performing the introductions.
The last in the group was a short, silver-haired female who had wandered off for a moment to study a framed set of botanical
prints.
“Lady Ariel.” The dowager tapped her friend’s shoulder. “If you can tear yourself away from
Cannabis savita
, I should like to introduce you to Lord Hadley—you know, the champion swimmer.”
Lucas heard a splash behind him as someone spilled her tea.
“I am acquainted with the gentleman.” The lady slowly turned, her oversized steel-rimmed spectacles giving her the air of
a startled owl. “We met briefly at Lady Wilton’s ball. In addition to your sporting skills, sir, you have quite a gift for
reciting entertaining poetry.”
“I am flattered that you recall such details,” replied Lucas as he lifted her hand to his lips.
Appalled
was a far more accurate word. The limericks she had overheard were bawdy enough to make a sailor blush.
“It’s hard to forget such pithy
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