His Lordship's True Lady (True Gentlemen #4)(14)
She was beautiful, when she was peering up at Hessian in the midday sunshine, exhorting him to choose wisely or not at all. Her hair was all dark fire and soft embers, her hands both competent and elegant. Her eyes changed color with her moods and attire, going from agate to smoky gray.
Those eyes bore the steady regard of a woman who knew who she was and what she wanted in life.
So why did that woman dress in the most unprepossessing ensembles ever sewn by a Mayfair modiste? As a girl, Lily Ferguson had been vain and fussy. As a woman, she aspired to out-nun the most devout Papists for drab attire.
“Miss Lily is comely,” Hessian said, “though she doesn’t trouble over her appearance inordinately. Do we endure the apple torte here, or cast ourselves on the mercy of your cook?”
Worth tossed his serviette on the table. “Walk me home, and I’ll introduce you to a raspberry trifle that will make you glad you’re old enough to spoil your dinner at will.”
“I do not approve of gluttony, Worth.”
Worth signaled the waiter to wrap up the uneaten meat for Andromeda.
Worth was collecting females, while Hessian had Daisy, and the prospect of bringing her up under his roof was such an unlooked-for boon, Hessian couldn’t muster any envy toward his brother.
Toward anybody.
On the walk to Worth’s town house, Hessian wondered what color Miss Lily Ferguson’s eyes would be if she decided that what she wanted out of life was to become the Countess of Grampion. When her husband made love to her for the first time, would she allow him to leave enough candles lit that he could discern the passion in her gaze?
Had he been a betting man, Hessian would have said yes. Lily Ferguson would not have allowed her husband to settle for groping in the dark. Married to her, a man would be required to make love and to acquit himself to the lady’s complete satisfaction.
Lucky fellow.
Chapter Four
* * *
“Only a brave hostess holds a garden party this early in the Season,” Emmaline, Countess of Rosecroft, said.
“Or a foolish one,” Lily replied. She was attending the Chuzzleton gathering because Uncle Walter had insisted. Somebody had to show the Ferguson flag, or Mrs. Chuzzleton —who had both eligible sons and a widow’s interest in Uncle Walter’s fortune—would issue invitations until the Thames froze over.
Somewhere on the premises, Oscar was doubtless swilling punch at a great rate, pausing only to flirt with young ladies or dally with a straying wife. Sensible people lingered near the tents in case the clouds that had been threatening all morning decided to water Mrs. Chuzzleton’s flowers.
“A pity the Holland bulbs did not accommodate Mrs. Chuzzleton’s social schedule,” her ladyship said, twirling her parasol.
The countess—who insisted Lily call her Emmie when they were private—had married very much above her station when she’d spoken her vows with Rosecroft. She was thus well outside the circle of ladies who might have known Lily as a girl. Her ladyship was also unlikely to note minor lapses of deportment in a woman all of society thought headed for life on the shelf.
The shelf loomed in Lily’s awareness like a patch of the Promised Land, and she prayed nightly that Uncle Walter’s plans for her included decades of peace and relative independence in obscure spinsterdom.
“The tulips must have been spectacular,” Lily said, though now, past their prime, they looked… pathetic. Stems without flowers, petals rotting on the dirt, leaves soon to follow.
“Shall we see if the buffet has anything to offer?” her ladyship suggested. “I’m not that hungry, but this breeze has become too refreshing.”
The buffet sat beneath a tent at the foot of the garden. “God forbid we should suffer rosy cheeks from an abundance of fresh air.”
The tent would be as stuffy as the garden was chilly, with everybody packed in too closely, speaking too loudly, and discreetly spilling their punch on one another’s slippers when they realized how liberal Mrs. Chuzzleton had been with the sugar.
“Is something amiss, Lily?”
Well, yes. As Rosecroft had handed Lily out of the coach, he’d quietly conveyed that Werther Islington would be taking a repairing lease for the foreseeable future. Lily had no idea what his lordship had been going on about. Islington was a bachelor from a decent family, so he showed up in the predictable locations looking overfed and acting under-couth.
“Do you know a Mr. Werther Islington?”
Her ladyship’s parasol stilled. “He’s friends with Rupert Sharp.”
That explained it. Rupert, who was anything but sharp, had got the benefit of Lily’s insight regarding his marital prospects two years ago, and what young men lacked in brains, they made up for in wounded pride. Uncle had been wroth with her, though Uncle was equally disapproving of Lily’s rare friendly impulses toward the bachelors.
And there was Rupert’s mama, hovering over the sandwich table just inside the tent.
“I’m off to find the ladies’ retiring room,” Lily said. “You needn’t join me. It’s too early for the rakes to be out of bed, and the fortune hunters are all swarming about the free food and drink.”
“True enough. I’ll find Rosecroft, and we can tear ourselves away from this bacchanal despite its endless blandishments.”