The Unlikely Lady (Playful Brides #3)(18)
He strode into the opulent rose silk–wallpapered room to see Cassandra, Lucy, and Miss Lowndes all busily talking to Mrs. Langford. The knot in his gut tightened.
The moment she saw him, Mrs. Langford’s pale green eyes lit with a smile. “Mr. Upton, how good to see you.” Her joy made the guilt all the worse.
“Mrs. Langford,” he replied, with a nod and a bow. He did his best to smile. She wore a dark blue silk gown that hugged her figure. Isabella was gorgeous. There was no denying it, but he noticed it the same way he’d note his own sister was a beauty, if he’d had a sister. Well, Lucy then. Lucy was a beauty by all accounts, but to him she was just his cousin, the little ragamuffin of a girl who had chased him around and got dirty with him in his youth. Isabella may not have known Garrett as a child, but she was Harold’s widow and that made her as undesirable as any sister or cousin would be.
“Wherever have you been this evening, Garrett?” Lucy asked, turning to greet him. “We’ve been waiting for you to go into dinner.”
“I’m sorry to have made you wait.” Garrett gave his cousin a kiss on the cheek.
“Yes, well, now that you’re here, won’t you escort Mrs. Langford into the dining room?” Cassandra requested prettily. No doubt she assumed he would be eager to renew his acquaintance with the widow. “I’ve seated you next to each other,” she added.
Garrett kept the smile pinned to his face. He glanced at Miss Lowndes who, thankfully—and unusually for her—remained silent. She merely raised her dark brows over the rims of her spectacles and gave him a look that told him she was wondering about the nature of his friendship with Isabella. Bloody perfect.
“By all means.” Garrett gestured toward the door where the other couples were lining up to make their way into the dining room. He looked back to see Miss Lowndes on the arm of Owen Monroe. Damn it. Why wasn’t Monroe up here trying to charm Isabella as promised?
Garrett offered his arm to Isabella, who took it eagerly. They fell into step behind the others. The procession made its way into the dining room with its long polished mahogany table and dark green damask-covered chairs. Lord and Lady Moreland took their places at the head and foot of the table. Cassandra and Swifdon sat to their hostess’s immediate right and left. Lucy and Derek, the Duke and Duchess of Claringdon, were next, seated across from each other. A few other guests filled in the space between, then Isabella, then Garrett. He took his seat and looked up to stare into the smugly smiling face of Jane Lowndes.
He wasn’t certain exactly what a bluestocking face was, but surely it would look like Miss Lowndes’s. She was the type of young woman who would argue with a gentleman about things like horses and history and theater and essentially any topic that came up in polite conversation and a few that did not. She would be sitting across from him all evening while he was forced to make awkward conversation with Isabella.
Of course, perhaps it was merely a coincidence that Isabella was here. Perhaps she’d only used his name to gain entrée to a much talked about social fete. It wasn’t her fault that she reminded him of his guilt. He pasted a smile on his face and turned to Isabella.
“I trust your journey here was a pleasant one,” Garrett said to Isabella as the footman shook out her napkin and placed it over her lap.
“Indeed, it was,” she replied demurely. “It was kind of Lady Cassandra to invite me.”
“We’re all greatly looking forward to the wedding next week.” He felt like a complete ass. A footman poured Garrett a glass of wine. Wine. He’d never been so bloody happy to see a glass of wine.
“Such a lovely occasion and reason for the Swifts to come out of mourning,” Isabella murmured.
How long had she been in mourning for Harold?
The footmen began serving the first course, a watercress soup. Garrett sat with his back ramrod straight, racking his brain for a sufficiently pleasant yet simple topic to keep the conversation going. Thankfully, Miss Lowndes had turned to Owen Monroe. They appeared deeply interested in their conversation.
Garrett glared at Monroe. Was that reprobate flirting with Miss Lowndes? Since when did Monroe have a bloody dimple? And his eyes were—dare he think it?—sparkling. Garrett did a double take. He’d never seen anyone flirt with Miss Lowndes before. He narrowed his eyes on the couple. It was not possible. He was imagining things. He’d seen some of the women Monroe kept company with in London. Despite what he’d said today on the ride, it was unimaginable that Miss Bluestocking was Monroe’s sort. Never. Besides, Monroe, that blighter, had agreed to flirt with Isabella. He was doing a bloody poor job of it so far.
“I hope you don’t mind that I’ve come,” Isabella whispered to Garrett, dragging him from his thoughts.
Garrett forced himself to look away from Miss Lowndes. He cleared his throat. “No. Not at all.” What else could he say? “I do admit I wasn’t aware that you and Lady Cassandra were … friends.”
Isabella peeped up at him from beneath her long dark lashes. She had the grace to blush. “I must admit that we are not, Mr. Upton.” She took a deep breath. Her lips trembled. “I … I … wanted to see you.”
With that astonishing bit of information, she turned her attention back to her soup.
Garrett reached for his wine glass and took a long, deliberate drink. He went to place the glass back on the table, thought better of it, and took another long drink. The footman rushed to refill his glass.