He gripped the paper with an air of possession. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”
He’d earned an underlined word and high praise for giving the best kiss to the woman who made his heart sing. Of course, he was peacocking.
Ideas were flowing. Seductions were forming. He’d have her again, and again, and again.
Another ink spot marred the foolscap. What a messy letter writer she was. He touched the surface lovingly, finding the outline of a stain. Wetness. A tear, he was sure. He scanned the remaining lines for the source of her weepiness.
Burn the letter? Never. He’d memorialize it and read it when he was long in the tooth. Folding the tender missive back into neat fourths, he acknowledged a vexing point: the dowager.
What was he going to say to her?
CHAPTER 9
CARRIAGES RATTLED STEADILY, lines of them. In the distance, clouds of dust billowed on one particularly dry, eastern road. He let go of the high, sweeping curtains and took a seat at the round table where his half-eaten breakfast waited to be finished. The ever-vigilant Thomas attended his private meal. The footman’s back was to the window overlooking the south lawn where his brothers escorted Lady Jacintha, her sister, and mother on a late morning. The merry troop appeared to set out toward his newest folly, a recreation of a ruined Roman fortress.
There was much to decide today—and after seeing the earl’s daughter—a bit of strategy to plan too.
He speared his fork into a coddled egg when his mother nipped into his sitting room.
“Thomas, please arrange a carriage to take Mrs. Chatham home.” She paused, checking the brass mantle clock. “Have it ready for her in the next hour. She’s a bit peckish this morning and moving rather slowly.”
“Yes, Your Grace.” White glove on his midsection, the footman executed a perfect bow. “I’ll attend it now.”
“Please do,” she said, arraying herself on the settee. The dowager cleared her throat while fussing with yellow silk skirts. The rustle was distinct, concise with an
A wise son, he would listen. He swallowed his last bite and turned his attention to the settee. Pleasantries were in order.
“Good morning, mother.” He motioned to the chair facing him. “Care to join me?”
“Good morning, and no, I have already broken my fast, though my appetite was a bit off because I had to use much of the morning explaining your sudden departure from the ball last night.” She tipped her head and pearl earbobs slanted elegantly. “You remember. The ball in your honor.”
A line was being drawn this day in their shifting relationship. She would forever be his mother, deeply loved and much admired, but he’d not be managed.
“Everyone seemed to enjoy the evening, and my presence was not required.” He set his fork on his plate and dabbed his mouth with the serviette. “My choice for duchess has been made.”
“Oh? Has Lady Jacintha won the honor? You didn’t dance with her.”
“No. I didn’t. Yet she’s gamboling on our south lawn with my brothers as we speak.”
Hyphen-thin brows arched. “What else could I do, but invite her and her family to stay? Your name was on her dance card.”
He put some space between himself and the table. “How did it get there?”
“I don’t know.” The dowager’s feigned innocence was terribly obvious.
“Mother…”
“I had to do something. Of all the young ladies, you favored Lady Jacintha. You spoke to her the most.” Manicured fingers drummed the settee’s back rest. “Though you ogled Mrs. Chatham at every turn.”
“Ogled?”
“That is how I would describe it.”
