It Happened One Autumn (Wallflowers #2)(47)

“Westcliff considers flattery and charm a waste of time,” St. Vincent told Lillian.

“So I’ve noticed.”

St. Vincent laughed. “I shall propose a carriage drive for the day after tomorrow then. Does that sound agreeable?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“Excellent,” St. Vincent said, adding in an offhand manner, “unless, Westcliff, you have some other claim on Miss Bowman’s schedule?”

“No claim at all,” Westcliff said flatly.

Of course not, Lillian thought with sudden rancor. Obviously Westcliff had no desire for her company, unless it was to spare his guests the sight of watching her cast up her crumpets on the dinner table.

They rejoined Daisy, who raised her brows at the sight of St. Vincent and asked mildly, “Where did you come from?”

“Were my mother alive, you could ask her,” he replied pleasantly. “But I doubt she knew.”

“St. Vincent,” Westcliff snapped for the second time that evening. “These are innocent girls.”

“Are they? How intriguing. Very well, I’ll try for propriety…What subjects may one discuss with innocent girls?”

“Hardly any,” Daisy said glumly, making him laugh.

Before they reentered the dining hall, Lillian paused to ask Westcliff, “At what time shall I visit the countess tomorrow? And where?”

His gaze was opaque and cool. Lillian couldn’t help but notice that his disposition seemed to have soured since the moment St. Vincent had invited her on a carriage drive. But why would that displease him? It would be laughable to assume that he was jealous, since she was the last woman in the world in whom he would entertain a personal interest. The only reasonable conclusion was that he feared that St. Vincent might try to seduce her, and he did not want to deal with the trouble that would ensue.

“Ten o’clock in the Marsden parlor,” he said.

“I’m afraid that I am not familiar with that room—”

“Few people are. It is an upstairs parlor, reserved for the family’s private use.”

“Oh.” She stared into his dark eyes, feeling grateful and confused. He had been kind to her, and yet their relationship could not, by any stretch of the imagination, be considered a friendship. She wished that she could rid herself of her growing curiosity about him. It had been much easier when she had been able to dismiss him as a self-important snob. However, he was far more complex than she had originally thought, revealing dimensions of humor, sensuality, and surprising compassion.

“My lord,” she said, ensnared by his gaze. “I …I suppose I should thank you for—”

“Let’s go in,” he interrupted curtly, seeming eager to be out of her presence. “We’ve tarried long enough.”

“Are you nervous?” Daisy whispered the next morning, as she and Lillian followed their mother to the door of the Marsden parlor. Although Mercedes had not been specifically invited to meet with the countess, she was bound and determined to be included in the visit.

“No,” Lillian replied. “I’m certain we have nothing to fear as long as we keep our mouths shut.”

“I’ve heard that she hates Americans.”

“That’s a pity,” Lillian said dryly, “since both of her daughters married Americans.”

“Quiet, the both of you,” Mercedes whispered. Dressed in a silver-gray gown with a large diamond brooch at the throat, she gathered her hand into a tangle of sharp knuckles and rapped at the door. There was no sound from within. Daisy and Lillian glanced at each other with raised brows, wondering if the countess had decided not to meet with them after all. Frowning, Mercedes knocked at the door with increased force.

This time, a barbed voice penetrated the seams of mahogany paneling. “Stop that infernal hammering and enter!”

Wearing subdued expressions, the Bowmans entered the room. It was a small but lovely parlor, with walls covered in blue flowered paper and a large set of windows that revealed a view of the garden below. The Countess of Westcliff was arranged on a settee beneath the window, her throat swathed in ropes of rare black pearls, her fingers and wrists weighted with jewels. In contrast to the brilliant pale silver of her hair, the lines of her brows were dark and thick, set uncompromisingly low over her eyes. In feature and in form, she was completely bereft of angles; her face round, her figure run to plumpness. Silently Lillian reflected that Lord Westcliff must have inherited his father’s looks, for there was little resemblance between him and his mother.

“I expected only two,” the countess said with a hard look at Mercedes. Her accent was as clean and crisp as white icing on a tea cake. “Why are there three?”

“Your Grace,” Mercedes began with a toadying smile, bobbing in an uncomfortable curtsy. “First let me tell you how deeply Mr. Bowman and I appreciate your condescension to my two angels—”

“Only a duchess may be addressed as ‘Your Grace,’ ” the countess said, the corners of her mouth drawn downward as if by an excessive pull of gravity. “Did you intend that as mockery?”

“Oh no, Your…that is, my lady,” Mercedes said hastily, her face turning skull-white. “It was not mockery. Never that! I only wished to—”

“I will speak alone with your daughters,” the countess said imperiously. “You may return in precisely two hours to collect them.”