Once Upon a Maiden Lane (Maiden Lane #12.5)(8)

Henry inclined his head. “That would be my father.”

“Quite,” the marchioness said, her voice so dry it might as well be dust. Henry had always had a sneaking fondness for the old girl, as dreadfully frightening as she tried to be. “When both Lady Cecilia and her twin sister, Lady Joanna, were kidnapped at the age of seven months, and only Lady Joanna was recovered, Angrove decided that the arrangement would be altered so that Lady Joanna would replace her sister as the bride.”

The marchioness halted her recitation and turned slowly to examine Lady Cecilia. The girl sat primly upright, her hands folded in her lap, her expression reserved and neutral.

The sight somehow sat ill with him—it was as if her flame had been doused. Henry had the urge to whisper something scandalous in her ear, just to see that fire again.

Lady Angrove gasped, blotting her eyes with her handkerchief. “But now that Cecilia has been found…”

The marchioness sniffed. “Indeed.”

Lady Caire cleared her throat as the door to the sitting room opened. Two maids bearing lavish tea trays marched in. The one in front nearly tripped when she glanced up and saw Lady Cecilia, her eyes widening.

“Do continue, Beth,” Lady Caire said rather sharply. “There’s no need to stare.”

Lady Cecilia bit her lip, her eyes downcast as her face reddened.

The maid recovered and placed her tray carefully on a low table, darting glances at Lady Cecilia every now and again. There were small cakes and tarts, bonbons, and thin slices of bread cut into shapes and spread with butter.

Henry felt his lips twitch. Ah. A feast fit for treaty negotiations.

Lady Caire was silent while the maids were in the room, merely nodding when they curtsied and left.

“You’ll have to learn to ignore them,” the marchioness said to Lady Cecilia. “You’re no longer a servant. No longer one of them.”

Lady Caire turned a cool smile on the marchioness. “How do you take your tea, my lady?”

The old lady’s own smile was detached. “A splash of milk, if you please.”

Tea was doled out to the participants, and Henry sat back to watch Lady Caire’s first volley.

It was not long in coming.

She took a delicate sip of her tea. “This is all very sudden for Mary Whitsun. I think it would be beneficial for her to have time to consider what you’ve told us.”

The marchioness set down her teacup very deliberately and eyed Lady Caire. So had Caesar probably eyed the Gauls across the battlefield. “I’m afraid that we don’t have the luxury of time. Her training must begin at once. After all, she’ll be wed within the year.”

Lady Cecilia squeaked.

Henry glanced at her and saw that her face had paled.

This wouldn’t do.

“One day won’t be such a loss, my lady,” he murmured. “Indeed, acquiring the tutors you will need for my fiancée will take more time than that, will it not? Let Lady Cecilia rest and recover from her shock for a day.”

He smiled guilelessly at the old virago.

Her eyes narrowed until it appeared that an elderly dragon was glaring at him.

Abruptly she turned to Lady Caire. “Very well. A day. We will return tomorrow for the gel.”

Lord Caire stirred and said deliberately, as if he hadn’t heard her, “Mary Whitsun shall think over the matter and inform you tomorrow if she wishes to go with you.” He rose and bowed gracefully. “What a delight to meet you, my lady. Lady Angrove.”

Lord Caire strolled from the room, leaving the tattered battlefield to the ladies.

Propriety apparently dictated that the truce last another twenty minutes, which time was spent sipping tea, eating tiny cakes, and participating in a discussion so benign it would’ve sent a vicar to sleep.

Henry paid little heed to the polite small talk, watching his intended instead. She said not a word, letting the older ladies carry the conversation.

Perhaps she was not used to being considered an equal in such a setting. Her expression was carefully blank as she sat stiffly at the edge of her seat, her teacup held untouched in her lap, but he could tell from the downcast eyes and the faint knitting of her brows that she was not happy.

He wished that propriety allowed him to talk to her in private. Perhaps he could provoke a smile—or at least a spirited scowl. Anything but that sad, downcast air.

The sight made his heart ache.

Henry cursed silently and glanced away. Did she have a beau she mourned? Or was it he she didn’t want?

It appeared that he was to be shackled to yet another fiancée who wasn’t interested in him.

Who, perhaps, longed for a different man.

He pushed the thought aside and attended to the conversation, trying not to stare broodingly at Lady Cecilia.

At the end of twenty minutes of careful words, the ladies rose.

Henry set aside his teacup in relief and stood to thank his hostess. He had the feeling Lady Caire’s good opinion would go a long way in helping his cause with her former maidservant.

He turned to Lady Cecilia, gazing into her large, sad eyes.

Damn it. All his good intentions flew out the window. He couldn’t leave her looking like this.

“I shall repine until next we meet,” he said, taking her hand and bending over it.

He raised her resisting hand to his lips and placed a not-quite-chaste kiss on her knuckles, deliberately lingering a fraction too long. It was much too soon, too bold, and even a bit scandalous, but it had the desired effect.