His Lordship's True Lady (True Gentlemen #4)(9)
The Grampion library was an inviting space, with more than the usual complement of bound books. The standard appointments were in evidence—globe, ornate fireplace, comfortable chairs, reading table, writing desk—as was a suitably attired earl, though his lordship looked to have gone short of sleep.
“Grampion, good day,” Lily said, sweeping a curtsey. “My friend, Devlin, Lord Rosecroft, was good enough to provide me an escort today. Rosecroft, Hessian Kettering, Earl of Grampion. I hope we find you well?”
Rosecroft exchanged bows with his host, all the while evaluating the earl for any spark of interest in Lily, and Lily for any interest in the earl. Grampion was a reasonably good-looking fellow on the settled side of thirty—the most marriageable age in Emmie’s opinion—and his manners were correct if not quite gracious.
He and Lily would make a fine pair, all proper decorum. Rosecroft was relieved to form that opinion, but he was disappointed too.
Lily was an orphan who’d been taken in as a girl by her uncle. Life had apparently taught her early that sentiment was a quagmire for the unwary. A union between Lily and Grampion would be based on common sense and, upon that most tepid of consolations, mutual esteem.
Rosecroft could not approve of such an earthly purgatory, but Lily would likely settle for it and not even realize how much the compromise had cost her.
Chapter Three
* * *
Lily had seen Grampion at the Duchess of Quimbey’s musicale on Saturday night. She’d not approached him for two reasons. First, Uncle Walter had been in attendance, thus ensuring Lily’s every move had been discreetly monitored. Second, Grampion had enjoyed a surfeit of female attention. He’d been honest about attempting to attract a good match, which occasioned an irrational spike of disappointment regarding the rest of Lily’s social Season.
And yet, this visit had been at his instigation.
“Shall we repair to the garden, my lord?” Lily suggested when the introductions were behind her. “The pleasant weather won’t last, so we should enjoy the fresh air while we can.”
In the garden, Rosecroft might wander off to sniff hyacinths, the better to spy on Lily from behind the hedges. When choosing her escort for the day, she’d had to weigh benefits and burdens, and Rosecroft’s protectiveness—a word used by men to excuse both nosiness and high-handedness—fell into the burden category.
The other option, bringing along dear cousin Oscar, would have been more sensible.
Lily was heartily sick of being sensible.
“The garden?” Grampion’s brows drew down. “My roses are many weeks from putting on a display, Miss Ferguson, and the crumbs from the tea tray might attract pigeons.”
“The very point, my lord. Where is my dear friend, Miss Daisy?”
Grampion pointed straight up, to the balcony above his head. “I fear Daisy has abandoned me. I’m far too boring a fellow to keep the fancy of such a lively young lady. I would offer to read to her, but she—”
A small blond head appeared over the railing above. “You would read to me? In the daytime? Truly?”
“If you can go for the rest of today without hiding,” Grampion replied, “or breaking any valuables, or—”
“Spilling anything,” Daisy finished. “Miss Lily is here.”
A child ought never to interrupt an adult or be caught eavesdropping. Across the library, Rosecroft pretended to study the globe, but he was doubtless attending every word.
“I promised I would visit today,” Lily said, “and I’ve brought my friend, Lord Rosecroft, with me. Can you come down and make your bow to us?”
Daisy was slow to respond—deliberate, rather, like the earl—and Rosecroft, having the instincts of a veteran papa, knew better than to indicate he sensed the girl was studying him. After a reluctant descent, she scampered across the library to Grampion’s side.
“Miss Daisy Evers,” Lily began, lest Grampion reprove the girl for dashing about, “may I make known to you my friend, Devlin St. Just, Lord Rosecroft. Daisy is more properly called Miss Amy Marguerite, though that’s rather a lot of name for such a little girl. My lord, make your bow.”
He did better than that. He bowed over Daisy’s hand and offered her a black Irish smile that had doubtless left hearts fluttering across the entire Iberian Peninsula.
“Miss Daisy,” Rosecroft said. “You were tempted to slide down that spiral banister, weren’t you?”
She peered at Grampion, as if to determine whether such a thing were possible.
“My Daisy would never be so indecorous before company,” Grampion replied, smoothing a hand over the girl’s crown. “Miss Ferguson suggests we should repair to the garden. I saw a pair of butterflies there earlier, though I’m sure they’re gone now.”
Daisy towed him toward the French doors, and the sight tugged at Lily’s heart. Grampion was trying, making an effort to cheer his little ward, and many men—many adults—would not have bothered.
“What color were they?” Lily asked.
“Blue.”
“Blue is my favorite color,” Rosecroft observed. “The same shade of blue as Miss Daisy’s eyes.”
Lily was always surprised when Rosecroft bestirred himself to flirt. His wife had confided that before buying his colors, he’d been an awful rascal, always in demand as an escort, and the best of big brothers to his nine siblings. War had changed him, and not for the better.