Page 85 of The Secrets of Lord Grayson Child
The gentleman on Izzy’s other side claimed her attention.
Gray sipped his wine, his mind turning over the conundrum of how, in the future he was slowly constructing, Izzy might manage to continue to runThe Crier. He suspected she would wish to and decided to allow the matter to percolate in the back of his brain. He was accustomed to finding his way past apparently insurmountable obstacles and felt reasonably confident that, one way or another, he and she would find a way around the potential hurdles.
His aunt tapped her glass with a fork and, when the conversations broke off and everyone looked her way, rose, bringing all the guests to their feet. “Gentlemen, we’ll leave you to enjoy your brandies. I trust”—she swept her gaze over the company—“you won’t dally overlong. I have further entertainment planned and would be loathe to find us pressed for time.”
With that pointed warning, she led the ladies out.
Drawing out Izzy’s chair for her, Gray grumbled, “‘Further entertainment.’ You know what that means.”
She laughed and patted his arm. “You’ll survive.”
He watched her walk away, then returned to the table and joined the general rearrangement as all the men moved closer to the head of the table, where the duke sat, as Gilchrist and his helpers set out the decanters and crystal glasses.
Gray settled and, smiling, nodded as Swan claimed the chair beside him. The brandy decanter made the rounds, and they helped themselves and passed it on, then sipped appreciatively.
Gray studied the amber liquid in his glass. “I once asked Aunt Matcham how it came about that she always had such excellent brandy. She replied that her late spouse had introduced her to the finer things in life—including the best brandy—and even though he’s been dead for decades, she didn’t see any reason to change her habits.”
Others smiled, several laughed, and the duke held up his glass. “To our hostess and her dearly departed lord.”
Everyone drank, then resumed or initiated conversations with their neighbors or those opposite. For a time, Gray and Swan were engaged with the gentlemen across the table, discussing the latest boxing match that had recently been held in Surrey.
When that subject waned, prompted by an impulse he didn’t stop to question, Gray turned to Swan and, savoring a sip of his brandy, studied the younger man. “Am I to take it your interest in Lady Marietta is more than passing?”
Caught in the act of raising his glass, Swan paused, then sipped and swallowed. Then he lowered the glass, swiveled so their conversation was somewhat more private, and met Gray’s gaze. “Lady Marietta is a sweet and lovely young lady with whom I share many interests.”
“So I understand. And as she’s in her second season and—as you noted—quite lovely, I assume she’s a young lady intent on making up her own mind. In that regard, from what I’ve observed, you’re well on the way to fixing her interest.”
Swan’s veneer of sophistication fell away. “Really?” Then he realized how hopeful that sounded and winced. But after staring at Gray for a second, he asked, “Are you sure?”
Gray waggled his head. “I only made her acquaintance recently. However, she’s very much the sort of lady who knows her own mind, and I can’t see her bestowing time on a gentleman if she wasn’t genuinely interested herself.”
Swan considered that, then blew out a breath. “That’s…encouraging.”
“Given that,” Gray smoothly continued, “I assume you’re in a position to make an offer.”
“Oh yes.” Swan seemed to be concentrating on that prospect as he rattled off his status, financially and estate-wise.
But then, eyes narrowing, he refocused on Gray. “In turn, I take it that your interest in my affairs stems from a similar interest in Lady Isadora?”
Gray met Swan’s dark eyes and…realized he was correct. Gray hadn’t paused to thinkwhyhe felt compelled to sound out Swan over his intentions regarding Marietta, but that, indeed, was the reason. Given her brother wasn’t in London, he felt he should stand in lieu of Julius with respect to applicants for Marietta’s hand—exactly as a brother-in-law would.
He could deny his aspirations and, instead, claim to be merely an old family friend…
Holding Swan’s gaze, Gray inclined his head. “Just so.” He drained his glass and, lowering it, admitted, “However, no more than you can I be certain of the outcome of my suit.”
“Ah. I see.” Judging from his expression, Swan accepted that without further question. After a moment, he cut a hopeful glance at Gray. “Do you know much about the earl? Marietta’s brother?”
Gray considered how forthcoming he ought to be, then thought of what he would hope to be told were their positions reversed. “You’ve heard of Julius’s marriage?” Swan nodded, and Gray continued, “Apparently, he and his wife are content to remain in the country, but the family remain close, and that extends to Julius’s grandfather-in-law, Mr. Silas Barton. He was the source of the funds that saved the Descartes and is a firm favorite with the family and, from all I’ve gathered, has been a great help to them over the years.”
From the look in Swan’s eyes, he was clever enough to read between the lines, and Gray proceeded to paint as clear and truthful a picture of the dowager countess’s household as he could.
At the end of the succinct recitation, Swan grew thoughtful.
Gray left the younger man to digest the information in peace and turned to the gentleman on his other side.
Shortly afterward, the duke slapped the table. “Gentlemen, I fear we should return to what awaits us, or our dear hostess is liable to send in the cavalry.”
With chuckles and smiles, the gentlemen rose and, in groups of two and three, ambled toward the drawing room—only to be diverted by Gilchrist and the footmen to the music room, deeper in the house.
