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THE STRIDENT VOICE of Dowager Lowry transcended the stairs as if she meant to call to someone on the second floor instead of speaking to her son in the drawing room where she waited. “I do hope your wife has not selected that dreadful gown of peach for the Bennington ball. Peach is not a becoming color upon her.”
Standing alone at the top of the stairs, Gertie glanced down upon the gown of peach she wore. With her dark brown curls and pale complexion, she had thought the pastel an appropriate color for herself. The satin gown with its layered lace ruffles at the elbows was one of her favorites to start the Season. She wore it with matching slippers and had labored to find the best among her jewelry to accent her attire, finally settling on her garnet set. Despite her impatience, she had allowed the coiffeuse to produce curl after curl in a meticulous attempt to create the Merveilleuse. For a brief moment, Gertie considered donning another gown, but they were late for the Bennington ball as it was, and she had the suspicion that the most perfect gown would not meet the approval of the Dowager.
“Or that horrid gown of lavender she wore to the Wempole garden party,” Sarah Farrington, her sister-in-law, added.
“Then why do you not impart your sensibilities to her?” Gertie heard her husband retort with irritation. “Instead you allow me to appear at these events with an unflattering wife.”
“I protest. I have made such an attempt, but alas, it has proven futile.”
Gertie recalled Sarah’s one endeavor. Her sister-in-law had reviewed her wardrobe, sniffing at the mediocrity of certain articles and explaining how each gown was unsuited for a woman of her shape and features before declaring the whole effort to be quite fatiguing and that surely it was time for tea? Gertie would have gladly taken any guidance from her sister-in-law for Sarah was a beauty of the first order and followed all the latest fashion plates in The Lady’s Magazine.
“Her arms appear to have grown in thickness,” Dowager Lowry disapproved. “I hope you have cautioned her, Alexander, against indulging her appetite too much.”
Weary of overhearing more criticisms from her in-laws, Gertie made her entrance into the drawing room. Three pairs of eyes looked her over from head to toe. Alexander and his mother frowned while Sarah smirked upon seeing the gown of peach. Gertie was well aware that she was the ugly duckling among the statuesque Farringtons. Though she knew the Earl to have born more affection for her dowry than her person, she had considered herself fortunate to have acquired a husband who had such fine features. With only a modest countenance and a plump figure, Gertie had been convinced she could only marry a skinny freckled young man or a corpulent wizened man with a gout ailment. Alexander with his golden locks, fair skin, and high cheekbones had appeared a dashing prince.
They had been married three years. The fairy tale had withered soon after their wedding.
Alexander narrowed his eyes at the gown of offense. “Shall we increase your allowance, Gertie, that you may procure a suitable ball gown?”
He asked for the benefit of his mother for he knew the answer. Alexander had squandered the largesse of the dowry and inheritance, most of it upon procuring a new coach-and-four and a house in Berkeley Square—though he considered Grosvenor Square a more fitting address for an Earl—and the remainder at dice, horses, and pugilism. His flippancy with all matters monetary had led his steward to begin consulting with his wife, whom they discovered had a decent head for figures and possessed more common sense. His distaste for such responsibilities trumped his pride, and Alexander was content to have his wife oversee the handling of the estate and household economy, provided he had access to funds when he needed them.
“Perhaps we ought to consider a new dressing maid,” Sarah added, raising two perfectly arched brows in her continued inspection of Gertie. “Jane has not done a proper job of disguising the shadows beneath your eyes.”
During the first year of her marriage to Alexander, the criticisms from her sister-in-law came in the form of poorly conceived flattery—a la “the bonnet you wear today is much more flattering than the one you wore yesterday.” Sarah made no effort nowadays to temper her contempt. Gertie allowed that such a beauty as Sarah must easily find fault in lesser mortals and had once quipped to a friend that Sarah should be glad that her splendor shined all the more when standing beside her plain sister-in-law. The angels had blessed Sarah Farrington with locks made from the sun’s rays, a swan-like neck, dainty feet and wrists so slender they equaled those of a child. Her nose, like her mother’s, was perhaps too sharp in profile, but apart from that, she was flawless.
“Perhaps a little more powder then?” Gertie replied, attempting to view herself in a mirror on the opposite wall.
“We have delayed long enough,” Alexander said with impatience.
Sarah had exceptionally discerning eyes, Gertie reassured herself as the Farringtons stepped into their carriage. Jane had received specific instructions to blend away the shadows—the result of an unfortunate series of events from the night before. Even now Gertie felt a warm discomfort as she recalled him. Hephaestus she had dubbed him, but the name had done little to achieve what she had hoped. Never had a visit to Madame Botreaux’s proven so unsatisfactory. She had been in fine form until he had appeared.
The night had progressed from bad to worse when, upon arriving to Lowry House last night, she had discovered that the portico she kept ajar for her surreptitious return had been shuttered. She had stood outside in the dark of night for what seemed like hours contemplating her options. She could knock on the door and wake the servants, perhaps explaining that she had gone for a walk to quiet a restless night, but that would not clarify how the door came to be locked after her. She finally remembered that she had left the window of her bed chamber ajar. She had successfully climbed the vines to reach the balcony of her chambers, but only after scraping a knee and losing a slipper to the bushes below.
“The Henshaws announced the birth of child—a boy,” remarked Dowager Lowry as their carriage veered onto Bourdon Street. “The Duchess had been rather apprehensive that Elizabeth would not produce an heir, but I had assured her that her daughter would fulfill her responsibility.”
Gertie stared into her hands. She felt the pointed gaze of the Dowager. The Dowager never failed to announce a birth of note—one would have thought her the bloody Times—to underscore the fact that she had no grandchild. Gertie felt Alexander shift beside her. She had once told her mother-in-law, despite the delicacy of the matter, that it was not for want of trying. In truth, as much as she dreaded the conjugal act with her husband, she would have liked nothing more than to cradle a babe of her own. Alexander, however, seemed to have lost interest in the past twelvemonth. He had not touched her in some time.
“Gertie, have you been seeing Dr. Fitzwilliam?” the Dowager inquired. “He told me you have not scheduled an appointment with him in over three months. I took the liberty of inviting him over next Tuesday. You will make the engagement at one o’clock, I presume?”
Gertie glanced at Alexander, but he directed his gaze out the window. There would be no help from him on this matter.
“I wonder that his services are needed—or effective?” Gertie returned.
The nostrils of the Dowager flared. “Do you doubt his skill, Gertie? Elizabeth Henshaw was a patient of his.”
With an inward sigh, Gertie relented.
Sarah arranged her skirts of midnight blue about her with long slender fingers. “I suppose the benefit of our supreme tardiness is that we are likely to pull straight up to the house, but then we will have missed much of the amusement, and the embarrassment of it all is most difficult to bear. I wonder that any other woman has to endure sharing a dressmaid with two other women? Shall we be forever late to all our events?”
She pinned her accusatory stare at Gertie, who was tempted to respond that most women had not the luxury of a dressing maid at all, but instead she replied, “I think that no one save ourselves shall be cognizant of why we are late.”
“It is enough that I am aware!” Sarah snapped.
Gertie looked to her husband, though she knew that he would not defend her or offer that he had acquiesced to her suggestion that they reign in their expenses by releasing some of the servants. She suspected that he had easily agreed in part because dismissing the other maids would have had little impact upon his person. Alexander had been more reluctant to dismiss the groomsman, but when Gertie explained that they had exhausted their credit and that the only possible loan would have to come from Jewish quarters, he had conceded.
Silence pervaded most of the ride to the Bennington residence. Alexander spent the time examining his fingernails, Sarah pouted, and the Dowager stared at Gertie, who had long ceased to attempt a light tete-a-tete with her family. Inevitably, they would find something at fault with her. As Sarah predicted, there was no line of carriages to wait behind when they arrived, and when they were announced, most of the guests were too engrossed in conversation already to notice. Sarah was not often of a cheerful disposition, but Gertie braced herself for what would surely be at least a sennight worth of her cantanker.
Gertie anticipated a long night as her best friend, the Marchioness of Dunnesford, would not be in attendance. The dancing had already begun. Not expecting to dance—Alexander had yet to request a single dance since their marriage—Gertie went to sit beside Mrs. Pemberly, a woman who had befriended her parents before they had passed away.
“Gertrude, how lovely to see you,” Mrs. Pemberly greeted with a warm smile that extended to her emerald eyes, which had lost none of their radiance through the years. She patted the spot on the settee next to her. “Ah, you wore that dress last Season, did you not? It is a lovely gown, but I must confess that I think the shade to be less than brilliant against your hue, my dear.”
“That would seem to be the prevailing sentiment then,” Gertie sighed as she took a seat and watched as a flock of men circled around Sarah for the minuet.
“Indeed?”
“My mother-in-law and Sarah commented upon the same.”
“That won’t do. I have no wish to be in accordance with Belinda Farrington.”
Gertie smiled. Mrs. Pemberly had never been enamored of the Farringtons and had cautioned her father against the Earl of Lowry. It was Gertie herself—or her vanity, rather—and the desire of her father to see his only child married that had sanctioned the match.
“There he stands—across the room,” Mrs. Drake, sitting on the other side of Mrs. Pemberly, whispered behind her fan.
Mrs. Pemberly promptly held up her own fan. “The one in white silk? With the gold embroidery?”
“Need you ask?”
One corner of Mrs. Pemberly’s mouth curled in almost naughty fashion, to Gertie’s great surprise. Intrigued by the mystery of their exchange, Gertie looked across the ballroom and immediately discerned what had to be the subject of their attention.
Wearing a magnificent coat that curved away from the front to reveal a gorgeous waistcoat and very fitting breeches, he was easily the most beautifully dressed man in attendance. The coat had a standing collar trimmed with embroidery, buttoned pleats, and encased his body with such tightness one wondered how he had fit into it. A deep sapphire of the brilliant cut was nestled in his cravat. He wore his hair powdered, smooth about the forehead with ailes de pigeon above the ear. Gertie had never seen the man before. Although his high fashion might have escaped her notice, his features would not. With an intelligent brow, a masterful but not overly square jaw, a straight nose, smooth cheeks, and defined lips, he possessed the perfect blend of fair and rugged beauty. His relaxed eyelids gave him a sense of ennui. If he was cognizant that he was the center of much attention, he did not reveal it.
Gertie strained to see the color of his eyes until she realized he was looking at her. She jerked her gaze away. Perhaps he had not been looking at her. He stood across the length of the ballroom and from such a distance it would be impossible to know precisely where he gazed. And why would he choose to be looking at her? Still, it had felt as if he had. Perhaps he meant to return the impertinence of her own stare.
“Who is he?” Gertie asked.
“One who has been on all our tongues the whole of the evening,” Mrs. Drake responded.
“What a delicious thought,” Mrs. Pemberly quipped.
Gertie gasped. She had never heard Mrs. Pemberly speak in such a fashion.
“Oh, but you must know him, Gertie. He is a cousin to your husband, is he not?”
Gertie furrowed her brows. “I have not met him before.”
Mrs. Pemberly nodded. “Yes. He went into exile, as it were, some five years ago, before you were married to Alexander. And then we all thought him dead at the hands of a French count whose daughter Barclay was rumored to have seduced. But you must know Barclay’s sisters and brother. Lord Barclay is the eldest.”
Mrs. Drake shook her head. “Lady Surrington is the eldest of the brood.”
“The Baron Barclay—I supposed he is no longer the Baron then,” Gertie said of the younger brother. “He is not only a cousin to the Earl but a neighbor. The Barclay lands borders Lowry. I had forgotten he had an older brother.”
“I understand the Farringtons are not overly fond of the Barclays?”
“They do not converse much,” Gertie rephrased. She deliberated whether or not to take a second look at the man, and decided against it.
Not to be deterred from her efforts to unearth more gossip, Mrs. Drake asked, “I heard that if there is no heir for Lowry, the earldom would fall to Lord Barclay? Perhaps that is the reason for his return to England?”
“Hush, Pamela!” Mrs. Pemberly interceded. “If Barclay were interested in peerage, why would he have given up his barony to his brother?”
“He could not manage his estate while in exile. And because an earldom awaits him!”
“Pamela, you are a ninny. Have you forgotten his repute? Barclay has shown he has but one overriding interest: the fair sex. I wish I were twenty years younger that I should be an object of his pursuit.”
“You need not be. I heard he also courted an Italian countess while in exile, and she had fifty years to her!”
“He has kept his habits then?” Gertie asked for she had heard that Barclay had left England after a duel over a man’s wife.
“I should hope so,” Mrs. Pemberly responded as she fanned herself more vigorously.
Gertie shook her head and smiled. She rose to her feet. “I think I should look for my husband.”
“His years on the Continent have served him well,” Mrs. Drake said to Mrs. Pemberly.
Unable to resist any more, Gertie glanced in Lord Barclay’s direction, but he was gone.
* * * * *
SHE DASHED BEHIND THE heavy damask curtain. Hiding in the Bennington library was not the most dignified activity for the Countess of Lowry, but Gertie would not have anyone witness her tears. Crying did not become her. Her cheeks turned red as apples, the tip of her nose likened itself to a cherry and her eyes puffed pink as the flesh of melons until the whole of her face was a veritable fruit cart.
Lord and Lady Bennington were dear friends, and Lady Bennington had been months planning her first ball of the Season. Gertie did not want the hostess thinking that the event was anything less than a complete triumph with all of her guests. That the evening was proving to be the worst that Gertie could remember was no fault of the Benningtons.
She had gone to seek Alexander in the card room upon suspecting that he might take to hazard, his game of choice whenever he felt short of funds. She had requested to speak to him to remind him that, given their situation, he should limit his gaming. Alexander had turned red with rage.
“Do not ever presume to call me away from the tables,” he had seethed before stalking back into the card room to, more likely than not, run up more debt.
A little shaken by his vehemence, Gertie had returned to the ballroom to Mrs. Pemberly and Mrs. Drake, both of whom were still on the topic of Lord Barclay. After sitting a while, Gertie had grown restless and decided to seek some air in the gardens, but she had not walked far when she overheard two familiar voices.
“I have not the least interest in Mr. Warburton!” Sarah was protesting.
“It matters not,” Alexander had responded. “He has an interest in you.”
“But he is old and—and homely.”
“He is wealthy.”
“I will not marry him.”
“As your brother, it is my duty to oversee your interests. We are in a precarious way with funds.”
“My interests? You mean your interests! Perhaps if you did not lavish your mistress with gifts quite so often, we would not be in such dire straits. That sapphire bracelet of hers must have cost a fair guinea.”
The rest of their conversation had continued as if from the end of a long tunnel for Gertie. The words had hit her full and hard in the stomach. Alexander had a mistress. She was not surprised by the fact, but the realization was nonetheless painful. Little wonder that he had not sought her bed chambers of late. He had a mistress. A mistress to whom he presented gifts. Aside from his wedding gift to her, a broach that had belonged to his grandmother, she had never received the slightest token from him.
She could not remember if she had stayed to hear the end of their dialogue. Overcome with misery, she had sought seclusion to nurse her wounds. In the quiet of the library, away from the music and merriment, she had sobbed. She had never expected to win her husband’s heart, but she had hoped to have a child, a source of pride and joy, someone to bestow the bountiful affection that waited in her own heart. She was sure that a child would take away the despair of her loveless marriage and fill the void with light. But if her husband had no desire...
What a stupid fool I have been, Gertie had chided herself, on the verge of a new wave of tears when she heard a scuffle outside the library door. She dashed behind the nearest curtain.
Two bodies stumbled into the room. Through the slit between the curtains, she saw the flash of a familiar midnight blue as the bodies fell onto the sofa not far from where she hid. Her cheeks flamed when she realized the body of the woman writhing below was that of her sister-in-law. The body pinning Sarah to the sofa was that of Lord Barclay.
“Tell me,” Sarah said between deep breaths, “how it is we have not met before?”
“You would feign ignorance?” he responded as he pressed his mouth to her neck. “Come, come, we have been neighbors, afterall.”
“I had not had my come-out when you left England. I was five and ten, and I think you thought me an awkward little girl then—“
She stopped upon realizing she had revealed her own falsehood. She looked at him with some trepidation, but he only smiled briefly before returning to her neck, which he caressed in slow lingering kisses. She closed her eyes and moaned in delight.
“You have no need to prevaricate with me, Lady Sarah. You were never awkward.”
Sarah arched her back and neck, allowing him more surface. “I see that you have lost none of your impudence since leaving England.”
“Indeed, I have acquired more during my absence,” he murmured into her neck. “I would hazard that you prefer your men impertinent.”
Sarah gasped. One of his hands had made its way up her skirts. Gertie flushed. This would not do. She had to find a way out. But she could not tear her eyes from them—from him and what he was doing. There was something masterful in the way he moved with Sarah, plying her body as if he were a puppeteer secure in knowing just how she would react to his every move. No doubt his confidence stemmed from many a practiced seduction.
“Very impertinent,” Sarah acquiesced as her gasps quickened.
Gertie marveled at how this Barclay could fondle Sarah with one hand without interrupting the rhythm of his kisses. Imagining what he might be doing beneath Sarah’s skirts stirred sensations in her own loins. His ministrations were apparently quite effective for Sarah was panting and moaning, one hand clutching the edge of the sofa with whitening knuckles. Gertie shifted her weight in discomfort. She needed to find a way out for she knew not how long they intended to stay, and though the fullness with which his mouth explored the neck before him mesmerized her, she did not think she wanted to view her sister-in-law much more than she had.
Sarah’s moaning became high pitched grunts and wails. She was close to her climax, her eyes shut tight. The two were absorbed enough for Gertie to slip away. Slowly, she brushed aside the curtain and stepped from her hiding place. Her toe struck the footstool as she dashed towards the door, but she suppressed her cry. Once safely outside the library, she hurried down the hallway and allowed herself a grimace for her poor toe. She found a mirror on the wall and examined how her tears had smeared her powder and rouge.
She also noticed one of her earrings to be missing.
* * * * *
JUST BEFORE SARAH CRIED out in ecstasy, Phineas thought he heard something behind him. After gently coaxing the last tremors from her orgasm, he allowed her a moment of peace before moving himself to examine the room about them. He saw no one, but the door was not completely shut and he was sure that he had closed it when they came in.
“What is it?” Sarah murmured as she stretched with the satisfaction of a cat freshly woken from a nap.
“Nothing,” he responded. There was no need to alarm her. “I think dinner will be served shortly. We had best return.”
It was possible someone had sought to enter the library and he had simply not heard the door open. Sarah had been rather vocal. But then he noticed the overturned footstool. Someone had been in the room.
“When shall I see you again?”
“Methinks your brother bears little fondness for me, madam,” he answered wryly as he studied a spot of discoloration on the carpet.
Sarah pouted. “What does that matter?”
It was no discoloration. He bent down and picked up a garnet earring.
“Alexander may be my brother, but I am near twenty years of age and quite capable of deciding whose company I wish to keep.”
“No doubt, but I have no desire to find myself in another duel.”
He tucked the earring into the pocket of his waistcoat.
“Alexander would never have the courage to challenge you.”
Phineas had to agree with her assessment. He had seen enough of Alexander, who was near in age to his own brother, growing up to believe that the Earl lacked much of a backbone. But it had been made clear to him that the scandal of another duel would send him into permanent exile or to a trial by peers. A friend of his who served in the House of Lords had advised him not to test his luck with the latter, saying “If you hadn’t made half of them a cuckold by bedding their wives, I would have said otherwise.”
Turning to Sarah, Phineas offered his hand. She rose from the sofa and straightened her skirts.
“I will be at Hyde Park tomorrow,” she informed him as she patted her ringlets to ensure they had not come undone. “I should be most pleased to see you there—if you are not otherwise occupied.”
He brought her delicate hand to his lips. “I will make myself unoccupied.”
She gave him a broad smile, one that looked odd upon her customarily humorless physiognomy. It amused him at times the women he chose to seduce. With Sarah Farrington, she was as much the seducer as he. Having made eye contact with him, she had immediately thrust up her fan, but her eyes had told him all he needed to know. They had beckoned, and when he had not immediately responded for he had no desire to be part of the group of pups that lapped at her, she had sought him out, conveniently dropping her fan at his feet when their paths crossed in the hallways.
At dinner, Sarah glanced often over her pigeon pie in his direction. She was not the only one to eye him. He was keenly aware that he and not the much touted lobster was the cynosure of the evening. There was not one pair of eyes that did not look his way. One set in particular had caught his attention. The soft green eyes, set in an unremarkable but tender physiognomy of rounded cheeks and supple lips, had studied him from across the dance floor. He had found her familiar, and though he possessed an astute memory for faces, he could not place her.
“When did the Earl of Lowry marry?” he asked of Mrs. Pemberly, who was seated next to him.
“He has been married to Gertie some three years,” she replied, clearly pleased to be the source of information for him.
He looked down the table at the Countess of Lowry. She did not appear to be the kind of wife he would have expected Alexander to take.
“I do not think I know her family.”
“Well, her family is of the bourgeoisie but a good family nonetheless. Her father made quite the profit in the sugar trade.”
Ah, that explained Alexander’s choice of spouse, Phineas thought to himself. He had known Alexander to be rather vain and would not otherwise have taken a plain woman to wife lest she possessed some other prevailing quality.
“If you ask me,” Mrs. Pemberly posited, “I would rate her family above that of the Farringtons. Gertie is far too good for the likes of him.”
He studied the elder woman and decided she spoke sincerely and not with any attempt to flatter him with her awareness that the Farringtons and Barclays were not the fondest of relations. Mrs. Pemberly seemed a woman who hesitated not to speak her mind. He returned his attention to that of the Countess, who stirred her soup aimlessly. She sat between Alexander and the Dowager Lowry, both of whom ignored her the whole of the dinner. Phineas recalled seeing the Earl and his wife earlier in the evening. He stood too far to overhear their conversation, but he had seen the livid expression upon Alexander and the forlorn look of hopelessness in Lady Lowry after he had berated her in what must have been harsh terms. Though he knew not her person, Phineas felt a tug of sympathy for the Countess. He knew of few women he would recommend Alexander to. Perhaps Sarah Farrington if she were not already his sister.
The powder and rouge upon Lady Lowry wanted another application, he noticed. His gaze drifted to her garnet necklace, the design of which matched the earring in his pocket.
“I should introduce myself to this new relation of mine,” he commented.
Mrs. Pemberly eyed him carefully. “Indeed?”
“The relations between the Barclays and the Farringtons are not as strained as the rumors would have you believe. We converse quite amicably.”
“Indeed?”
He looked her square in the eyes and smiled. “Indeed.”
She was the first to blink. “Well, you will find Gertie a pleasant and honest girl. She is quite refreshing in that regard. You will find no nonsense with her. While she may not be up to snuff with all the de rigueur of gentle society, she is extremely sensible. I myself have seen her maturation through the years and regard her with as much affection as if she were mine own.”
Noting the claws of the lioness, he replied, “You are protective of her.”
“I will not see her harmed.”
“And you fear that I am a wolf in search of a sheep.”
“Though I suspect Lady Lowry is not the type to inspire your predilections, I confess your motives puzzle me.”
“A simple desire to acquaint myself with a new member of the family does not satisfy you?”
“Certainly the marital situation of a woman has not stopped you before,” she continued without answering him, cognizant of the rhetorical nature of his question. “Dare I presume that you have mended your ways?”
A brash question deserved a brash reply.
“Do you hope that I have?”
Mrs. Pemberly colored, then allowed a grin to creep into her lips. “Fair enough.”
The dinner over, Phineas rose to his feet. He turned to Mrs. Pemberly and raised her hand to his lips. “What delightful dinner company you have been, Mrs. Pemberly. I esteem a woman who speaks her mind. I hope that Fortune will grace me again with your presence.”
The blush rose in her cheeks once more. She raised a thin eyebrow at him. “I rather think that your sojourn on the Continent was spent not in repentance but in perfecting your charms, Lord Barclay.”
“You are a woman after mine own heart,” he noted of her ability to compliment and critique in the same stroke.
She fluttered her fan before her with a little more vigor. He offered her his arm and escorted her from the dining hall. Across the room, Alexander was engrossed in a conversation with another gentleman, leaving his wife alone to walk behind him.
Mrs. Pemberly must have noticed the same for she said, “Did you not wish to make the acquaintance of the Countess of Lowry?”
Phineas bowed to his dinner companion and made his way towards the Countess.
“Lady Lowry,” he addressed.
She had begun to walk away from the crowd, perhaps attempting to steal away to some haven of solitude, and was obviously startled that someone had called to her. When she turned to face him, he saw that she was not as plain as when seen from afar. Her cheeks had a natural blush, and though her eyes were not the large sparkles of color that graced the physiognomy of her sister-in-law, they possessed more depth. Unlike the shallow waters of Sarah Farrington, the verdant eyes of the Countess intrigued him.
They stared at him in displeasure.
Undaunted, he introduced himself with a bow. “I am Phineas Barclay, a relation of the Farringtons.”
“I am aware that you are a distant relation,” she replied coolly.
He had the feeling that even though she had to crane her neck to meet his gaze, she was attempting to look down at him. Perhaps she shared the sentiments of her husband towards the Barclays.
“A much belated congratulations on your nuptials.”
Her frown deepened. He would have not have been surprised to hear her tell him that congratulations were unnecessary from him as he had not been invited to the wedding.
“Yes,” she said, mustering more hauteur into her expression, “I was told you had been banished to France.”
Her dislike of him, which was becoming increasingly palpable, amused him, as did most of the disdain people would have towards him. The son of parents who shocked gentle society with their wanton spirit and numerous illicit affairs, he had become immune at a tender age to what others thought.
“You put it harshly, madam. I like to think of my time there as a holiday,” he replied. “I had occasion to travel to the Côte-d'Or and would highly recommend the region. The wines there are par excellence.”
He could tell his impudence riled her.
“Ah, then you will be taking yourself back there?”
He nearly chuckled at her juvenile attempt to rid herself of his company. “I shall be staying in England for some time. I have come across a pursuit of great interest to me.”
“Yes, I know,” she said wryly.
“You do?”
She faltered, “I mean...naturally you will have missed much of what England has to offer, perhaps not the same quality of wine that you would find in France, but perhaps a rousing game of cricket or warm Yorkshire pudding on a cool winter morning, and certainly friends and family, from whom I will keep you no longer.”
She turned to leave. He refrained from specifying that she was now family.
“Before you leave, Lady Lowry,” he said, stopping her in her tracks. “I believe this to be yours.”
He held out the earring. Her eyes widened upon seeing it. She hesitated, as if she contemplated denying ownership, but it was obvious that her one ear was missing its adornment. When she reached for the earring, he deftly reached for her with his free hand, pulling her closer. Though the nearest guest was not within earshot, he meant his words for her ears alone.
“Next time, feel free to join us, Countess,” he murmured as he pressed the earring into her hand.
She burned brightly to the tips of her ears. Grasping the earring, she turned on her heel and hurried away from him.