T
he next morning came all too early. Lorelei snuggled deeper under the counterpane of her warm bed, willing herself back to sleep, but she’d grown up in the country and was used to waking early, no matter how late her head hit the pillow. Late being six that morning. She glanced at the clock. It was nine. Groaning, she stretched, then rang for a bath. She would never survive a full season of going to bed at six in the morning only to rise three hours later.
Tonight would be different. Tonight, she was to attend a production of Much Ado About Nothing. Aunt Isobel had her own box.
Lorelei took her time bathing, soaking her aching feet, not that she was allowed to mention such a forbidden topic. Thankfully, unless she encountered a clairvoyant, there was no one to call her out on her unmentionable thoughts.
It was another two hours before she made her way to the morning room for a well-earned breakfast.
“Good morning, Aunt.” Lorelei pecked the dowager’s thin as paper-skinned cheek and took her place at the table.
“I see you survived your ordeal,” she groused.
“My feet are another matter.”
“That is an entirely inappropriate subject for the breakfast table,” Aunt Isobel snapped.
Lorelei lifted her cup to hide her mirth.
Aunt Isobel grunted. “It’s not funny.”
“It is a little,” Lorelei said.
“Be that as it may, do not let me catch you saying anything remotely similar outside this house. A completely uncivilized and thoroughly debauched topic. By the bye, I’ve invited Oxford and the Maudsleys to join us in our box tonight.”
Excitement curled through Lorelei. “Oh, I can hardly wait to see a live performance. The closest I’ve ever been to theater is the village children enacting The Nativity at the rectory every year.”
Aunt Isobel’s tightened lips softened into a slight curve. It was nearest thing to a smile Lorelei had seen from her thus far. “You are in for a treat then.”
A pounding down the stairs echoed in the hall outside the Morning Room and thirteen-year-old Brandon, Viscount Harlowe, burst through the doors.
“Child! We do not run in the house.”
“Yes, ma’am.” All gangly legs and arms, he almost tripped on the chairs legs and plopped across from Lorelei. “There’s bunches of flowers in the hall, Lore. Are they all for you?” His voice had that cracked hoarse quality prevalent to a boy on the brink of maturity.
“Of course, they are for her.” Aunt Isobel’s dislike of men apparently extended to boys as well.
Goodness. She’d never received that many before. “How many bouquets are there?” Lorelei asked.
He shrugged. “Four. Maybe five.” He glanced at their aunt and sunk lower in his chair.
Her brother’s forlornness pricked at her.
“Sit up, boy,” Aunt Isobel snapped.
Lips compressing, Lorelei glared at the dowager, for all the good it did. She and Brandon hadn’t spent a moment together since arriving. “Would you like to walk to the park, Bran? We could take our sketchpads.”
“No going to the park for you, Lorelei. Gentlemen will be stopping by for their morning calls. You must remain available.”
Brandon scowled.
Lorelei caught his eye and gave her head a little shake. “Then we’ll take our sketchpads to the library and work in there until I am summoned,” she said firmly.
Aunt Isobel grunted.
Lorelei took that as an assent.
Brandon’s mulish pout cleared from his face. “I suppose that’ll be all right,” he said, clearly unable to keep the same from his voice.
Lorelei couldn’t wrap her head around all the flowers in the foyer. Six vases! Did that make her a success? Certainly, she’d never received more than one bunch when she’d been at Spixworth. She pulled each card, read the signature, and poked them back within the foliage. Disappointingly, not a single one had been from the Earl of Kimpton. Of all the people she’d met the night before, he was by far the most fascinating.
She couldn’t seem to concentrate on her drawing, but then she wasn’t the artist her brother was.
“Why does Aunt Isobel hate me?” Brandon’s surliness yanked Lorelei back to her surroundings. “She’s our only relative.”
They were situated in Aunt Isobel’s very extensive, very impressive library, sitting at a table near the windows. A hazy morning sun slashed the dark wood of an unscuffed table. Noting like the scarred version they used at Spixworth Hall.
“I don’t know, darling. I can promise you this, it’s not because she knows you. She doesn’t. I mean you haven’t put a frog in a bed in years.”
He didn’t even crack a smile. His pencil flew over his paper.
Concern, etched with panic, simmered in her. “Brandon, I’ll never desert you,” she said softly. “You realize that, don’t you?”
His flippant shrug shredded her insides. His pencil never slowed.
She reached across the table and gently squeezed his fingers. “Brandon, look at me.”
His hand stopped, and he lifted blue eyes that matched her own.
“It’s you and me, Bran. No matter what.”
He blinked rapidly then dropped his gaze and nodded sharply.
Tibbs knocked and appeared in the doorframe, his silver brows and matching mustache affecting his stoic mask.
“Lady Lorelei, the dowager is requesting your presence in the drawing room.”
“Thank you, Tibbs. I’ll be there directly.” Lorelei let out a sigh. “I’ll see you in a bit, darling. The games begin.”
He frowned. “What games?”
“I don’t know. It’s just something Aunt Isobel said last night.” She ruffled his hair as she stood, though he shook her off. It sent a melancholic nostalgia through her. Did she detect the shadow of hair on his upper lip? He was taller than her now. He was growing up.
Lorelei checked her appearance in the foyer mirror and patted her hair, though not a single strand appeared out of place. She went to the drawing room door, grasped the handle, and took a deep breath. She let it out then entered. Stunned, she pulled up short. The room was so full there were not enough chairs for everyone to sit. She fervently hoped she could remember names. She was not always so good at that.
“It’s about time, Lorelei.” Aunt Isobel was not known for her subtlety. Her voice carried across the room. “As you can see, we have a roomful of guests.”
Surely, every person in that room could detect the blazing heat crawling up her neck. Her fingers wrapped about her locket, and she lifted her chin. “Forgive my tardiness, all.” She made her way through the throng and took a seat on the brocaded settee next to her aunt. Aunt Isobel slipped a missive in her hand.
“Lady Lorelei, you look fresh as a hothouse rose.” Lord Shufflebottom’s feigned charm was as insulting as it was grandiose hauteur. He’d sent yellow daisies.
Aunt Isabel’s fan rapped across his knuckles as quick as a horse’s crop. “That’s enough out of you, Shufflebottom.”
“My apologies, your grace. Mayhap you’re available for a ride in the park, Lady Lorelei?”
Lorelei’s stomach dipped with revulsion. She didn’t care at all for Lord Shufflebottom. If asked, however, she couldn’t have said why but for the overly perfection of his appearance. His hair was primped and tousled just so. His waistcoat, this morning, of marigold silk. Not a single tone he wore didn’t blend perfectly.
Aunt Isobel nudged her shoulder with her own. “You have a note, dear.”
Lorelei glanced at her aunt.
Her eyes dropped to Lorelei’s fingers. Pointedly.
“Oh, yes. I’d almost forgotten.” Lorelei smiled. “One moment, Lord Shufflebottom.” She looked down at the note.
Lady Lorelei, The fashionable hour begins at five for a drive in the park. I’ll shall be by to pick up you and your maid at twenty minutes of the hour.
Yrs. Kimpton
Lorelei glanced up, meeting Shufflebottom’s narrowed eyes. “I’m terribly sorry, my lord. It appears my time will be otherwise engaged.”
High on his cheek bones, two crimson flags appeared. “I see. Perhaps another time, my lady.”
“Perhaps,” she murmured, vowing the opposite.