Page 83 of The Secrets of Lord Grayson Child
He dutifully bowed over the matron’s hand, then that of her daughter, an insipid miss who fought not to titter. Smiling urbanely, he exchanged the usual pleasantries and was almost grateful when another matron with two young ladies in tow swept up to claim his attention.
He fought not to look around wildly for help; most of the gentlemen present were the young ladies’ fathers and unlikely to come to his aid. Instead, he smiled, let meaningless phrases trip from his lips, and told himself he could cope.
As the minutes dragged by, more couples arrived, some with eligible young gentlemen in tow, no doubt dragged along by their mothers. In this season, with most of the ton in the country, the Marriage Mart was largely in abeyance. Consequently, those still in London wishful of marrying off their young people would view his aunt’s event as an opportunity to be seized.
Sadly, the younger gentlemen provided no effective competition for the matrons’ and their daughters’ attentions. Regardless of not being in line for the title, as a duke’s son, Gray trumped them all even before his appearance, experience, and likely wealth were added to the scales.
He soldiered on, feeling grievously misled by his aunt and wishing he were elsewhere. The ineffable comfort of the quiet evening he’d spent in Norfolk Crescent two evenings before loomed longingly in his mind.
A Mrs. Dawlish and her son and daughter cornered him, and he was forcefully reminded that not all sharks swam in the sea. Desperate to escape, he glanced toward the door just as Gilchrist led in a trio of elegant ladies and announced, “The Dowager Countess of Exton, Lady Isadora Descartes, and Lady Marietta Descartes.”
Gray’s heart rose. Relief and expectation washed through him. Izzy caught and held his attention, a slender figure in aquamarine silk with her hair up in an elegant knot and a touch of fine lace at her throat.
He turned back to the Dawlishes and, without compunction, cut across Mrs. Dawlish’s haughty diatribe regarding the lamentable state of fashions in London compared to Paris. “If you’ll excuse me, there’s someone I need to speak with.”
With a half bow to the matron and a nod to the Dawlish son and daughter—a miss every bit as rigid as her mother—Gray set out to intercept Izzy, who had greeted his aunt and was stepping away, allowing Marietta to pay her respects.
The dowager countess had claimed the seat next to his aunt, and from the way the two older ladies were avidly engaging with Marietta, he surmised the pair were old friends.
Izzy turned as he approached, and her face lit with a spontaneous smile. “Gray.” She held out her hand. “I didn’t realize—” She broke off and glanced at his aunt. “I forgot Lady Matcham was your aunt.”
“Indeed,” he said, the word laden with feeling. He clasped her fingers and bowed over them; he was tempted to press a kiss to the slender digits, but that would assuredly draw attention—even more than they’d already attracted. He straightened and continued sotto voce, “Thank God you’re here. I’d reached the stage of seriously contemplating cutting and running.”
Her emerald eyes danced. “But this is only asmalldinner party.”
“I’m not sure my aunt knows the meaning of the word.” He glanced in that lady’s direction, saw she’d noticed his actions, and ignoring her rising brows, wound Izzy’s arm with his and turned them in the opposite direction.
Tipping his head closer to Izzy’s, with his urbane mask firmly in place, he murmured, “Given my assistance with Quimby’s murder and all that’s followed, I’m claiming your protection in return. Acting as my guard tonight is the least you can do.”
Izzy chuckled, but understood he meant the word “protection” literally. The matrons and marriageable young ladies who continued to approach them—their eyes and intentions brazenly fixed on him—were definitely hunting, and he was their hoped-for prey.
While she was too experienced and knowledgeable about the ton to be surprised by anything that happened within it, she didn’t appreciate that predatory attitude any more than he did, and while his tongue had lost none of its glibness, and if anything, his wits had only sharpened with age, having been absent from ton society for the past decade left him at a distinct disadvantage—one she didn’t share. Nevertheless, it took several encounters for her status as his preferred companion for the evening to be accepted.
However, once they’d established that, the importuning matrons, although puzzled, desisted, and she and he had a chance to converse.
“I take it”—he glanced at the sofa her mother and his aunt still graced—“that your mother and my aunt are old friends.”
“Very old.” She glanced at the pair. “They go back a long way. In fact”—she looked farther and located her sister and smiled—“one of their joint aims for this dinner is to encourage a connection between Marietta and Lord Swan.”
“Swan?” Gray frowned. “I’ve come across him somewhere…possibly at the opera?”
“Very likely. He’s something of a music aficionado, and Marietta is seriously musically inclined as well.”
Gray groaned. “I was right—there’s going to be music, isn’t there?”
His put-upon tone made her laugh. Trying to school her expression to a mere smile, she patted his arm. “I fear so. In fact, I think one can count on it.”
The look on his face reminded her that, while he didn’t actually dislike music, he’d never appreciated having to sit still and listen to it.
“All I can say is that I hope we don’t have to listen to too much—” He broke off, his expression appalled as, on cue, a string quartet, out of sight in an alcove farther down the room, started to play. “God preserve me!”
Struggling not to laugh again, she tightened her hold on his arm and turned toward where Marietta and Swan stood chatting. “Never mind. Come and I’ll introduce you to Swan.”
Gray grumbled about not wanting to talk about music, but consented to accompany Izzy to join her sister and Marietta’s possible beau.
As they neared, Izzy tipped her head closer to his and murmured, “Be nice. I like Swan. He’ll suit Marietta to the ground, and she’ll suit him as well.”
Thus adjured, he girded his loins and, despite expecting to be utterly bored, when Izzy fetched up beside her sister, he bowed over Marietta’s hand and greeted her with genuine pleasure. Then he turned to Swan and, with his social mask firmly in place, offered his hand. “Lord Swan.”
