gurgling laugh escaped Marina’s lips. ‘Now I know you are talking fustian! Here is the tea tray. Please excuse me, Lord Mortenhoe, Mama will wish me to pour.’
‘Might I assist you?’ He was on his feet before she could answer.
‘Oh...thank you.’ Marina poured tea and handed him two cups. ‘For you and for Mrs Hinton. Do you take milk or lemon?’
‘Lemon, thank you.’ In the face of two tea cups almost thrust into his hands Lord Mortenhoe carried them across to Priscilla Hinton and, as Marina hoped, was invited with a pretty smile to sit beside her.
Marina dispensed the rest of the tea and came to rest next to Mr Philpott, with whom it was possible to carry on the most comfortable conversation without the slightest discomfiture. Mr Philpott, a serious but kindly man, neither flirted nor teased but spoke in measured tones on dull and unexceptional subjects of interest that allowed one to survey the room and ensure that the company was all provided with refreshment and suitably entertained.
Mama, to Marina’s surprise, was regarding her with a less than approving expression. When she had her daughter’s attention, she swivelled her eyes to focus on Mrs Hinton’s sofa and produced a frown.
Marina responded with the slightest of shrugs. She was more than happy to see their two most distinguished guests amusing themselves, although, now she was watching them, it did seem rather fast of Priscilla to be popping a morsel of her almond cake between Lord Mortenhoe’s lips. There was nothing he could be expected to do about that, of course, other than accept it with good grace.
He seemed to sense her gaze upon him and turned his head to meet her eyes, holding them with his own as he slowly licked a crumb of cake from his lower lip. Marina felt herself drawn in as though she had risen to her feet and taken a step towards him. Her skin was hot again with that strange velvety sensation and she broke eye contact with a shiver of alarm.
She sipped her tea, marvelling at her own lack of propriety in reacting so. But no one has ever flirted with me before, not like this. I do not know what to do.
No, that was not strictly true. Gauche young men had attempted to flirt with her when she was equally gauche and just out, but, with neither liking nor aptitude for it, she soon found herself eclipsed by more confident, assured and beautiful young ladies such as her friend Priscilla Wilde, now Mrs Hinton. The trouble was, she realised, that either she had not liked the young gentlemen enough to suspend her natural reticence or she found the posturing and play-acting funny, but could find no one with whom safely to share the joke.
But Lord Mortenhoe did seem to be a man who would know immediately what the joke was, and was also someone who could make flirtation rather stimulating. Probably it was the fact that he was older than those callow youths and simply more experienced.
Just how experienced? Marina wondered, watching him over the rim of her tea cup while listening with every appearance of attention to Mr Philpott speaking about the health of the King. Had Charlie introduced her to a rake? The thought made her smile; in the safety of her own home a rake seemed more interesting than alarming. The gentleman in question looked up as she did so and answered the smile with one of his own, a fleeting look of warmth and communication.
Bunting entered, a footman with fresh hot water on his heels. Goodness! Was that the time? It only seemed moments since she had poured the first cups. Marina glanced round hastily, half-expecting to see her guests looking reproachfully into empty teacups. But no one appeared to have noticed her abstraction. With a murmured excuse to Mr Philpott she rose and refreshed the teapot, then began to circulate around the room, checking to see who would like another cup.
This time, much to her surprise, her cousin got to his feet and helped ferry the drinks to and from the tea table. ‘Why, thank you, Hugh.’ Marina tried not to sound too surprised at his thoughtfulness.
‘Thank you, Cousin Marina,’ he responded as they stood together at the table. ‘Papa has been thinking about what Lord Mortenhoe said, and says that he wonders he never thought of horse breeding himself. And he says he will send me to Ireland, to a friend of his with a stud out there so I can buy my first horses with his guidance.’ Hugh’s normally sullen countenance was transformed by a broad grin he appeared quite unable to control and Marina’s heart warmed to him. ‘My own horses—think of it!’
‘Do not thank me—it is all due to Lord Mortenhoe’s suggestion. Why do you not tell him yourself? Here, take the cups for him and Mrs Hinton.’ The youth hastened over to the seated couple, his grin replaced with a frown of concentration as he attempted not to spill the tea. As he approached, Priscilla Hinton got to her feet, waving Lord Mortenhoe back into his seat and, taking her cup from Hugh, strolled over to join Marina.
‘My dear! I had no idea, you sly thing.’
‘What do you mean?’ Marina checked that the other guests were comfortable and steered Priscilla to a distant corner. ‘Don’t be provoking, Pris.’ Despite being as dissimilar in most things as they could be, the two young women had been fast friends for years, ever since they had shared a piano teacher and dancing lessons.
Priscilla was an elegant blonde with fine blue eyes, an open and spontaneous manner and a love of frivolity, luxury and fun. Marina could never get her to take anything seriously other than the acquisition of a rich husband, a duty Pris took with the utmost earnestness as being the passport to all the things she enjoyed most.
By great good luck she found a man who was not only rich but who adored her and whose chosen profession of diplomacy gave his young wife the perfect showcase for her charm, looks and love of entertaining.
Now she turned her aquamarine gaze on Marina and said reproachfully, ‘It is you who is being provoking, Mar! Here I am, your oldest friend, and you keep the most incredible news from me.’
‘What news? I cannot think of a thing that has happened since we went shopping last week that you would be remotely interested in.’
‘Lord Mortenhoe, of course! You attach an eligible suitor and do not breathe a word. Honestly, Mar, I feel positively hurt.’
‘Suitor?’ Marina regarded her friend with alarm. ‘He is no such thing, Pris, we only met yesterday. He is doing business with Charlie, buying some property.’ She took a deep breath—it was suddenly very important to disabuse Priscilla of this ridiculous misunderstanding. ‘I assure you, Lord Mortenhoe has no more interest in me than I have in him. In fact—’
She broke off at a sharp jab in the ribs from Mrs Hinton. ‘He is coming over.’
His lordship was indeed coming towards them. Marina found herself looking at him through her friend’s eyes: a powerful, assured, very masculine gentleman with looks that turned foolish female heads. And it seemed she was no more rational than the rest of them, for her heart was beating very strangely and she could feel the colour rising in her cheeks.
‘Ladies.’ He came to a halt just in front of them. ‘I must bid you goodnight. Mrs Hinton, it was a pleasure to meet you. Miss Winslow, I hope two o’clock will be a convenient time for me to call for our drive?’
‘Yes, perfectly convenient, my lord.’ It came out sounding squeaky, but at least it was a coherent sentence.
‘Then, until two tomorrow. Thank you for a delightful dinner party.’ He bowed slightly, turned and strolled over to take his farewell of Lady Winslow, his elegant figure tracked across the room by two pairs of eyes, one blue, the other grey.
‘Well?’
