Page 108 of The Lord Meets His Lady
Twenty-six
Strip away the fine trappings, and she could be standing in the Golden Goose on a slow night. A leering ginger-haired lord slouched in a chair, his pink silk shoe dangling half off his foot. Most of the men were glassy-eyed from drink.
Herr Wolf was not.
Cool blue eyes flickered with male appreciation as he prowled across the room. Silver tassels shined on his Hessians, the only decoration he wore. He was a beast of war in a field of docile creatures, save her husband and Mr. Beckworth. Herr Wolf could crush them all.
“You know my guest, Herr Wolf?” Baron Atal asked.
“We’ve met.” Lord Bowles covered her hand. She needed the warmth. Her fingers were icy.
“A most interesting man. He came with Lord Barnard.” The baron nodded at a gray-haired man flashing a gap-toothed smile.
“Lord Bowles.” The Prussian’s voice boomed. “Lady Bowles.” His wide mouth twitched with amusement at her name.
“Herr Wolf.” She didn’t curtsy.
Baron Atal’s head swiveled back and forth between the parties, his brows pinching with concern.
Mr. Beckworth flanked her, nodding his greetings. “Perhaps this is a good time to start the games.”
“Here, here,” Lord Barnard chimed in, raising his glass by the hearth. “You promised a week of hunting and games, Atal. So far, I’ve had neither.”
“We’re waiting for my sister. I wouldn’t think to start without her.”
“Your sister? A week of molrowing with the likes of us?” said the shoe-dangling lord.
“I’d think twice before I cavorted with you, Halliburton.” A feminine voice spoke from the doorway. Confident, sophisticated, yet cheerful.
Guffaws rolled through the room.
Silk skirts swished and a petite woman with glossy auburn curls piled high traipsed into the salon. She slid her arm through the baron’s. She grabbed whiskey from a passing tray and sipped it, her green eyes bright over the glass. Wide panniers flared under skirts embroidered with gold flowers. Her leaf-colored gown nipped the narrowest of waists, and Genevieve felt every inch of her unusual height.
No wonder her late husband, the bigamist, had risked his hide to marry her. She sparkled.
“Atal.” The woman nudged the baron. “Aren’t you going to introduce us?”
“If you promise to put the whiskey away.”
She took a sip. “You haven’t been able to dictate my coming and going in the past. Why try now?” And she downed the glassful.
Genevieve’s cheer recovered from the shock of Herr Wolf’s presence. The baron’s sister must’ve been born with natural daring. When footmen circulated bearing trays of a darker, tawny-colored drink, Mrs. Grey traded her empty glass for a full one.
“My dear,” Atal chided before his gaze swerved to Mr. Beckworth. “Be glad you have only brothers to contend with.”
Introductions were made. Mrs. Seraphina Grey greeted each person with genuine warmth and familiarity until she came to Mr. Beckworth. Shoulders square, her skin flushed a rosier hue, a distinct frown on her face.
She faced the disapproval raging in his ice-blue eyes. “Last I saw you, Mr. Beckworth, you were bound for the army.”
“That was more than eight years ago, ma’am.”
She took another sip, studying the breadth of Mr. Beckworth’s shoulders. “The years have been kind to you, no?”
“They have. Except for the loss of my mother and father.” He tucked an arm behind his back. “May I offer my sympathies for the loss of your husband?”
“You may not. The world’s a better place without him.”
“Sera,” the baron warned.
