Page 84 of The Secrets of Lord Grayson Child
Swan was younger by several years and readily grasped Gray’s hand. “My lord. I believe we crossed paths in Lady Alverton’s box at the opera last year.”
Gray inclined his head. “Indeed.” Understanding the surprised look Izzy sent him, he explained, “My aunt insisted I attend the event to further my return to the ton.”
She attempted, unsuccessfully, to hide her grin. “I see.”
Gray had expected Swan to pursue the opera connection, but instead, the young man said, “I saw a fabulous pair of matched grays being driven about town last week, and when I inquired, I was told they were yours, my lord.”
Smiling, Gray inclined his head. “They’re recent acquisitions.” He caught the droll look Izzy and Marietta exchanged and pointedly stated, “And no, I didn’t buy them because of my first name. Lord Hoddle had them from some breeder in Ireland, apparently imagining he was up to the task of managing them. Sadly, he was mistaken, and I was able to take them off his hands.” He grinned. “His lordship’s loss all around.”
“Indeed.” Appreciation lit Swan’s eyes, and he included Marietta and Izzy as he vowed, “Perfectly matched with utterly exquisite lines.” He glanced at Gray. “I imagine they run well?”
He nodded. “I couldn’t wish for better. Bowling along the Great North Road behind them is truly a pleasure.”
Marietta cut in with a comment about a recent offering at the Theatre Royal, and Izzy assisted in steering the conversation away from horseflesh. With unabashed good humor, Swan played along, as did Gray, and the four of them fell to reviewing recent London events.
By the time Gilchrist announced dinner, Gray had laid to rest his earlier fear that Swan would prove to be an effeminate waste of space. Swan and he had even managed to drag the conversation back to horses by debating the finer points of hunters and riding hacks suitable for the country. As both ladies rode, the discussion had involved them as well.
Gray wasn’t the highest-ranking nobleman present—that honor went to the ageing Duke of Perry, who therefore led the dowager countess into the dining room—but to his abiding relief, he was the second highest and therefore escorted the dowager countess’s eldest daughter.
Even more fortuitously, whether by design or sheer luck, his aunt had placed him next to Izzy more or less in the center of the long table and thus equidistant from Lady Matcham at one end and the duke and Izzy’s mother at the other. Swan and Marietta were seated opposite, a little way along.
Perfect placement. Gray proceeded to make the most of it, with Izzy’s ready assistance.
As dessert was placed before them, Izzy caught Gray’s eyes. “I’m enjoying this evening much more than I’d anticipated.”
Smiling, he held her gaze. “If your mother and my aunt are bosom-bows, then given Aunt Matcham loves to entertain, I imagine you’ve attended any number of these events over the years.”
“Indeed. Over the past twelve years, the number might even top fifty.” She tipped her head, regarding him quizzically. “How is it I never saw you at Matcham House long ago?”
His lips curved wryly. “In earlier years, I tended to avoid Aunt Matcham like the plague. I’m sure she itched to get her hands on me, but I was exceedingly elusive.”
“And yet, here you are.”
He inclined his head. “With my parents mostly in the country, I’ve found myself relying more and more on Aunt Matcham’s knowledge of the ton, and my attendance at events such as this is her price.”
“Ah.” Izzy nodded in mock-commiseration. “I can imagine she drives a hard bargain.”
Others drew their attention as the conversation grew more general. Not long after, one matron leaned forward to ask the company at large, “Did you see that the latest edition ofThe London Crieris by way of a hue and cry? Over some murder! I haven’t read it yet, but I made sure my footman fetched a copy.”
“Yes, indeed,” another lady replied. “I’m dying to read it. The articles are always so entertaining, but this week’s edition bids fair to being quite eye-opening.”
Izzy caught Marietta’s eye with a warning look, at which her sister rolled her eyes, but she kept her lips firmly shut on any impulsive and unwise utterance.
“Have to say,” the duke opined from the end of the table, “I could never understand why Gertie”—he nodded down the table to his duchess, who was seated beside Lady Matcham—“was always in such a flap every Saturday to read the blessed rag, but then I read it myself, and well, the stories aren’t half bad. Not the typical scandal-ridden offerings.”
“I,” the duchess intoned, “find the challenge of identifying the various personages in the stories quite enthralling.”
Many other ladies agreed.
Gray caught Izzy’s eyes and arched a brow.
Thoroughly pleased, she grinned.
Gray had noted the look she’d sent her sister. Under cover of the wider conversation, he asked, “Do you worry that your mother or sister might let something slip?”
“Constantly.” She met his eyes, her own suddenly serious. “And as they’re my best sources of gossip, if the connection ever got out…”
If her masquerade as Mrs. Molyneaux ever became common knowledge among the ton, the family would be ostracized.
