His Lordship's True Lady (True Gentlemen #4)(71)
“I often call on her ladyship of a weekday afternoon.”
“No accounting for taste,” Oscar said, putting Lily’s hand on his arm. “Let’s get this over with. I can use a new pair of gloves, come to think of. I’ll put them on your account, shall I?”
Five minutes later, Rosecroft was escorting a bewildered Oscar from the family parlor—“Stronger libation to be had just down the corridor, Leggett”—and her ladyship was closing the door behind the men.
“Lily Ferguson, why on earth would you inflict the company of that strutting noddypoop on yourself, much less on somebody who accounts herself one of your friends?”
“I do apologize,” Lily said, “and Oscar isn’t… well, he is, but that cannot be helped.”
Her ladyship took the place on the sofa next to Lily. “Lily, have you been crying?”
Only half the night. “Of course not.”
“I’m a mama. We have instincts about these things. You’re in trouble, aren’t you?”
“I have been for years.” Who on earth had said that? Lily put her hand over her mouth, but nothing would unsay those words. “I beg your pardon. I’m simply… Uncle thinks Oscar and I would suit.”
Masculine laughter sounded from down the corridor. Lily wanted to clap her hands over her ears.
“Tell me the rest, Lily. We’re friends, and once upon a time, I was in a spot of bother myself. Rosecroft hasn’t slept on a bed of eiderdown his whole life either.”
Once upon a time… the opening for most self-respecting fairy tales. “If Grampion asks your husband for a private conversation, please indicate to Rosecroft that I’d take it as a favor if he allowed the conversation.”
“It’s Grampion you’d rather marry, isn’t it?” Her ladyship’s tone was so kind, so understanding, that Lily’s heart broke all over again.
“There’s more to it than that, but yes. I’d rather spend the rest of my life doing Grampion’s laundry or chopping vegetables in his kitchen than endure five minutes as Oscar’s wife, but I’m not sure I have a choice. Uncle is very determined on the matter, and there’s a fortune involved, as well as old scandal.”
The countess took Lily in her arms. “You poor dear. Your smiling grease spot of an uncle has doubtless helped himself to your money and can’t bear for the world to learn of his thievery. Why must people be so venal and greedy?”
Her ladyship’s embrace was fierce and unexpected, else Lily might have had some defense against it. Instead, Lily hugged her friend back and tried not to cry.
“I’m tired,” Lily said when she’d thoroughly re-wrinkled Hessian’s handkerchief. She’d kept the one he’d given her last night and was carrying it as a talisman against despair. “I’m tired of dealing with Uncle, and now Oscar says he and I are to be married after my birthday. I have only seventy-eight pounds, and please stuff a tea cake in my mouth, lest I become a candidate for Bedlam.”
Her ladyship held up a plate of cakes. “Take several. They’re small, and Rosecroft will be back soon, a one-man biblical plague where baked goods are concerned. What can I do to help, Lily? I can put a coach and team at your disposal, get you to Dover, Portsmouth, or Scotland. Money won’t be a problem, and you’re welcome to help yourself to my wardrobe, though we’re hardly of a size.”
Tears threatened all over again. “Thank you, but if I leave England, then there will be fresh scandal, and I can’t have that.” Then too, leaving England meant never seeing Hessian again.
Her ladyship nibbled on a plain cake. “Grampion probably develops hives at the mention of scandal, and it’s Grampion you want.”
“You malign his lordship at your peril, Emmaline.”
Her ladyship popped the last of her tea cake in her mouth and dusted her palms. “I mean your intended no disrespect. Some men simply have a wide proper streak, my Devlin among them. Those same men can develop a wide improper streak at the most interesting times. You’ve chosen Grampion, and thus we must see that you aren’t shackled to your noddypoop cousin. Has Grampion chosen you?”
Had he unchosen Lily? Stepped back for the nonce? “I don’t know.”
“Oh dear. Try the chocolate cakes. They are my favorite.”
*
A muscular arm landed across Hessian’s shoulders.
“My commanding officer has dispatched me with special orders. I am to find an opportunity to converse with you privately and nominate myself to serve as your aide-de-camp.”
Colonel Lord Rosecroft exuded genial Irish bonhomie, as if he’d had a bit too much of Jonathan Tresham’s excellent brandy. Hessian had watched his lordship through a long evening of cards, though, and Rosecroft’s drinking habits were abstemious.
His gaze was dead steady, despite the jocularity of his tone.
“Who might your commanding officer be, my lord?”
“My own dear wife, of course. Tresham, thanks for a lovely evening. Until next week.” Rosecroft bowed to the company of gentlemen putting on hats and greatcoats, and all but dragged Hessian out the door. “Tresham is doomed, poor sod. A ducal heir with pots of money, and he’s not bad-looking.”
“Why do we refer to a man contemplating matrimony as doomed? I gather in the right company, the result of speaking the nuptial vows is the opposite of perdition.”