at Hester, ‘to oblige the ladies.’
Lady Gregory followed the direction of his gaze, and a vexed expression flitted across her brow. ‘Hester, dear…’ her brow cleared ‘…would you mind having a word with cook right away? I know the invitation is for Wednesday, but these things take time to arrange. You will need to get a room prepared for dancing. Well—’ she smiled ‘—I am sure I do not need to tell you. You know exactly what to do.’ She nodded in a satisfied way as an expression of relief washed across Hester’s taut features.
This time, in tune with her true state of mind, Lord Lensborough appreciated what Lady Gregory had done. She had given Hester the excuse she badly needed to leave the room without having to speak to Snelgrove again. She was protecting her shy niece.
He recalled, with a chill, the number of times over the past few days various members of her family had sent her from the room on the most paltry of errands when he had been trying to engage her in conversation. Could it possibly be that they had not been bent on thwarting her chances after all, but had been attempting to protect her…from him?
Chapter Seven
‘What on earth has come over you, Lensborough?’ Stephen enquired on Wednesday evening as he put the finishing touches to his neckcloth. ‘If you were to meet a cur like that in town, you would give him the cut direct.’
‘You wanted an excuse to visit the vicarage, did you not? I have provided it.’ Lord Lensborough had been so determined to prevent Snelgrove from getting anywhere near Hester that he had ridden over to Beckforth vicarage at first light the past two days and kept him hacking round the local countryside till all hours.
He had not repeated his foolish attempt to get her alone and flirt with her either. No. The way to win the trust of any nervous colt was to demonstrate that he posed no threat.
‘Since when did you put anyone else’s interests before your own?’ Stephen scoffed. ‘It strikes me you’re trying to prevent him from getting at Cinders. I saw the way he drooled over her in the library on Monday.’
‘Astute of you.’ Lensborough smiled. He was looking forward to this evening’s entertainment. Dancing would provide him with a legitimate opportunity to hold her in his arms.
‘You’re really going to make the poor relation an offer?’
He shrugged. ‘Why not? She will suit my purposes as well as either of her cousins.’
Stephen selected a ring, threaded it on to his finger and paused to admire the effect.
‘I hate to burst your bubble, Lensborough, but have you not noticed that she doesn’t like you?’
‘She doesn’t dislike me as much as she dislikes Snelgrove,’ he pointed out.
‘But you cannot want to marry a woman who does not like you.’
‘You talk a deal of nonsense at times, Stephen. What has liking to do with marriage? In fact, I would find it tedious to marry a woman who liked me too well.’ She was an intelligent woman. Even if she did not like him much, she would certainly like to become a marchioness.
‘I have a great deal to offer her,’ he reassured himself. ‘Instead of acting as unpaid housekeeper to her aunt, she will be mistress of her own establishment. And she will become a mother. She adores children.’
Stephen regarded his fingers steadily for several moments, before remarking, in a voice devoid of all inflection, ‘You know I wish you well, Lensborough. But marriage is…well, it lasts a long time. Not like taking a mistress whom you can pay off when you’ve had enough of her.’
‘If you are intending to say anything derogatory about Lady Hester, then I strongly advise you—don’t.’
For some reason this outburst brought the smile back to Stephen’s face. ‘Then I won’t,’ he said. ‘We’ll go down to dinner in silence if you like.’
And they did.
‘What is the matter, Hester?’ Em and Hester were standing by the piano, which had been moved to the Great Hall, sifting through the sheet music while the ladies waited for the gen-tlemen to join them. Hester had been pleased with the atmosphere the servants had managed to achieve at such short notice. There was fresh greenery everywhere, the pots and containers swathed with every kind of red material they had been able to lay their hands on. They had even resurrected several old-fashioned flambeaux and stuck them in iron wall sconces or the gauntleted hands of the suits of armour.
She had unearthed the primrose-satin ball gown left over from her Season in honour of the occasion, though she had taken the precaution of tacking a fichu into the indecently lowcut bodice. She had even taken pains to make sure all the accessories matched. The cream kid gloves and gold satin slippers she had bought in Bond Street were as good as new, since they had been packed away in tissue paper after only one outing. Mary, the head housemaid, had helped her pin up her hair with a matching set of gold-and-amber combs. The ensemble was not as up to date as her cousins’ creations, of course, but then she was not the one trying to attract the notice of a marquis.
‘You hardly spoke a word at dinner, and you still seem strained. Is the house party not going well?’
‘In some ways,’ Hester mused, ‘it is going better than I expected. Aunt Valeria is so overwhelmed by Lord Lensborough’s magnificence…’ she stuck one hand on her hip, flicking an imaginary coat tail out of the way in the process, and looked down her nose at Em, raising one eyebrow in mimicry of Lord Lensborough at his most haughty ‘…that she hasn’t thrown a single tantrum. And Mr Farrar,’ she confided, dropping her pose, ‘who I at first thought was nothing but a dandy, is in fact doing his level best to put my cousins at ease. Not entirely successfully, I might add.’
‘Oho! What has the monstrous marquis done?’
‘Oh, hardly anything worth mentioning,’ she replied airily. ‘Apart from sneering at Phoebe’s watercolours and yawning over Julia’s embroidery, depressing Aunt Valeria’s pretensions and taking up with Lionel Snelgrove so that he does not have to go out riding with my uncle.’
Em giggled. Dinner had been one of the most strained occasions she had ever attended at The Holme, which was normally one of the most informal of venues. Julia and Phoebe, Hester had told her, were becoming increasingly agitated as the allotted week drew to a close and neither felt any nearer knowing which was likely to receive the formal offer. The marquis himself had not spoken a word throughout the entire meal, but sat with his mouth drawn into a line as though he were biting back scathing retorts. He even raised his haughty left eyebrow at Stephen Farrar for repeatedly provoking Phoebe into fits of giggles.
‘Has he ever spoken about running you down that first day? Or apologised for just taking off afterwards?’
‘Oh, that.’ Hester fanned herself with a sheet of music with a languorous air. ‘He has quite forgot all about that. I dare say he runs so many women off the road he cannot differentiate between all his victims. When he deigns to speak to me at all, which is not all that often, I promise you, it is on the subject of politics.’
‘P…politics? Oh, dear.’ Em laughed. ‘Does he try that with Julia? Or Phoebe?’
‘I wouldn’t put it past him.’ She glanced at where they stood by the fireside, heads close together in a frantically whispered conversation.
