It Happened One Autumn (Wallflowers #2)(26)

Marcus kept his face expressionless as he saw the raised brows of a few people standing nearby. Glancing in the direction of Mercedes’s rapid gesticulations, he saw the Bowman sisters, who were both transformed from the dusty imps playing behind the stable yards earlier in the day. His gaze latched on to Lillian, who was dressed in a pale green gown, the bodice of which seemed to be held up only by a pair of little gold clips at the shoulders. Before he could control the direction of his wayward thoughts, he imagined detaching those clips and letting the green silk fall away from the creamy pale skin of her chest and shoulders—

Marcus dragged his gaze up to Lillian’s face. Her shining sable hair was pinned neatly atop her head in an intricate mass that looked nearly too heavy for her slender neck to support. With her hair drawn completely away from her forehead, her eyes appeared more catlike than usual. As she looked back at him, a faint blush colored the crests of her cheeks, and she dipped her chin in a cautious nod. It was obvious that the last thing she wanted was to cross the room to them—to him—and Marcus could not blame her.

“There is no need to summon your daughters, Mrs. Bowman,” he murmured. “They are enjoying the company of their friends.”

“Their friends,” Mercedes exclaimed scornfully. “If you mean that scandalous Annabelle Hunt, I can assure you that I do not condone—”

“I have come to hold Mrs. Hunt in the highest regard,” Marcus said, giving the woman a level stare.

Taken aback by the pronouncement, Mercedes paled a little and hastily reversed herself. “If you, with your superior judgment, have chosen to esteem Mrs. Hunt, then I must certainly concur, my lord. In fact, I have always thought—”

“Westcliff,” Thomas Bowman interrupted, having little interest in the subject of his daughters or whom they had befriended, “when will we have an opportunity to discuss the business matters that were brought up in our last correspondence?”

“Tomorrow, if you like,” Marcus replied. “We’ve organized an early morning ride, followed by breakfast.”

“I will forgo the ride, but I will see you at breakfast.”

They shook hands, and Marcus took his leave of them with a shallow bow, turning to converse with other guests who sought his attention. Soon a newcomer joined the group, and they quickly made room for the diminutive figure of Georgiana, Lady Westcliff…Marcus’s mother. She was heavily powdered, her silvery hair elaborately coiffured, and her wrists, neck, and ears heavily ornamented with brilliant jewels. Even her cane sparkled, the gilded handle paved with inset diamonds.

Some elderly women affected a crusty exterior but harbored a heart of gold underneath. The Countess of Westcliff was not one of those women. Her heart—the existence of which was highly arguable—was definitely not made of gold, or any remotely malleable substance. Physically speaking, the countess was not a beauty, nor had she ever been. If one were to replace her expensive garments with a plain broadcloth dress and apron, she would easily have been mistaken for an aging milkmaid. She had a round face; a small mouth; flat, birdlike eyes; and a nose of no remarkable shape or size. Her most distinguishing aspect was an air of peevish disenchantment, like that of a child who had just opened a wrapped birthday present to discover that it was the same thing she had received the year before.

“Good evening, my lady,” Marcus said to his mother, regarding her with a wry smile. “We are honored that you have decided to join us this evening.” The countess frequently eschewed well-populated dinners like this, preferring to take her meals in one of her private rooms upstairs. Tonight it seemed that she had decided to make an exception.

“I wanted to see if there were any interesting guests in this crowd,” the countess replied somewhat grimly, her regal gaze sweeping the room. “From the looks of them, however, it seems the usual pack of dullards.”

There were a few nervous titters and chortles from the group, as they chose—erroneously—to assume that the comment had been made in jest.

“You may wish to reserve your opinion until you’ve been introduced to a few more people,” Marcus replied, thinking of the Bowman sisters. His judgmental mother would find no end of diversions in that incorrigible pair.

Adhering to the order of precedence, Marcus escorted the countess to the dining hall, while those of lower rank followed. Dinners at Stony Cross Park were famously lavish, and this one was no exception. Eight courses of fish, game, poultry, and beef were served, accompanied by fresh flower arrangements that were brought to the table with each new remove. They began with turtle soup, broiled salmon with capers, perch and mullet in cream, and succulent John Dory fish dressed with a delicate shrimp sauce. The next course consisted of peppered venison, herb-garnished ham, gently fried sweetbreads floating in steaming gravy, and crisp-skinned roast fowl. And so on and so forth, until the guests were stuffed and lethargic, their faces flushed from the constant replenishing of their wineglasses by attentive footmen. The dinner was concluded with a succession of platters filled with almond cheesecakes, lemon puddings, and rice souffles.

Abstaining from dessert, Marcus drank a glass of port and entertained himself by stealing lightning-quick glances at Lillian Bowman. In the rare moments when she was still and quiet, Lillian looked like a demure young princess. But as soon as she began talking—making gestures with her fork and freely interrupting the men’s conversation—all appearance of regalness dropped away. Lillian was far too direct, far too certain that what she said was interesting and worthy of being listened to. She made no attempt to seem impressed with the opinions of others, and she seemed incapable of being deferential to anyone.