Page 4 of An Execution, an Earl, and Miss Hughes
“She’s relentless,” Lord Deverell cast Sarah such a baleful look, that she was filled with pity for him.
“She’s quite something when she’s on a mission,” Sarah agreed, “The best advice I can offer—not that I’d presume to offer advice to an earl, my lord—is to subtly redirect her course.”
“And run her aground?” he pressed, his eyes alight with mischief.
“You needn’t wreck her on the rocks,” Sarah cautioned, for trying though Mrs Mifford was, she was also her friend’s mama. “Simply make her believe her mission is something else—something which benefits you—and then make her think the whole thing was her idea.”
“I was not expecting a lesson in tactics on my walk,” the earl said admiringly, as Sarah finished.
“And I was not expecting to find an earl in a bush,” she answered glibly.
He acknowledged her response by raising his dark brows in amusement, before offering her a curt bow. “It has been a pleasure, Miss Hughes.”
Considering herself dismissed, Sarah bid the earl goodbye and hurried along on her path home. Ashford was every inch the haughty earl the Miffords had described, she thought as she walked. Odd, though, that none of them had thought to add how handsome he was.
Sarah tucked that observation away safely at the back of her mind and refused, quite firmly, to look back.
CHAPTER TWO
LUCIAN ALASTAIR DEVERELL, Sixth Earl of Ashford, did not often pay social visits. After two days in Plumpton, he now remembered why; he wasn’t very sociable.
Oh, he enjoyed the company of his old friend the duke of Northcott perfectly well. He was even fond of—if not sometimes confused by—his gregarious wife Mary. And their son George was a sweet, sturdy little thing, who put Lucian to mind of his own son Rowan when he was his age.
What tired Lucian was, that after spending all day surrounded by people, he was then expected to spend his evenings surrounded by evenmorepeople. Usually he spent his nights alone with a good book on horticulture and a glass of brandy—not making small talk with strangers or battling against the meddlesome machinations of Mrs Mifford, his host’s mother-in-law.
The high point of his visit so far—which was due to stretch to a fortnight—was finally catching a glimpse of themoutanpeonies from China that Mr Leek had recently added to his collection. Lucian was agreatappreciator of rare flowers.
His encounter with the lovely Miss Sarah Hughes might also have been counted as a high point, were it not for the unfortunate fact that the young woman had witnessed his cowardly dive into the hedgerow to escape Mrs Mifford.
Even now, as he made his way downstairs to dinner, Lucian shivered with embarrassment at the memory. First impressionswere of great import and he doubted very much that he’d presented a dignified front to Miss Hughes.
What unsettled him most—more than his scuffed Hobby boots, ruined Weston coat and crushed pride—was the inexplicable fact that her good opinion seemed to matter to him. Quite a lot. Which was faintly ridiculous, for he was an earl and he wasn’t accustomed to worrying aboutanyone’sopinion of him.
“There you are Deverell.”
The Duke of Northcott gave a hearty cry as Lucian entered the drawing room. As Northcott was as predisposed to displays of enthusiasm as he was, Lucian immediately grew wary.
“Brandy?” Northcott questioned as Lucian arrived at his side.
“Before dinner?”
“Why not?” Northcott gave a Gallic shrug as he thrust a glass at Lucian.
Lucian sipped it absently, his eyes surveying the drawing room. The room was filled with an eclectic mix of people. In the corner stood the dowager duchess bedecked in silks and feathers. On the other side of the room the Duchess of Northcott was deep in conversation with her three sisters and their spouses.
By the French doors, he sighted Mr Mifford—the local vicar, and Northcott’s father in law—chatting with a jolly gentleman, who Lucian presumed to be part of the local landed-gentry. By the fireplace Miss Charlotte Mifford stood talking with Miss Hughes. Lucian’s stomach gave a little lurch as he spotted her, though he stubbornly attributed this to the brandy.
All looked calm and peaceful, he thought, wondering why on earth Northcott seemed so on edge.
“Why, Lord Deverell! There you are.”
Lucian stiffened as he recognised the syrupy sweet tones of Mrs Mifford. He turned to offer her a tight smile—the kind of smile that would make grown men balk—but Mrs Mifford was undeterred.
“You’re just the man I was hoping to see! I took a stroll yesterday afternoon to Mr Leek’s, to view his greenhouses with my niece Charlotte—you know Charlotte, terribly pretty, set to cause quite the stir next season. I wish to consult you on my plans for something similar at Primrose Cottage; a little bird told me you’re quite the horticulturist. Which is such a coincidence for it’s also a passion of mine! And Charlotte’s, for that matter. I must check with Mary to make certain we’re seated together for dinner so we can discuss my plans further.”
Mrs Mifford finished her gushing verbal barrage with a smile so manically bright that Lucian almost lifted a hand to shield his eyes from its beam. She rushed off at the same speed with which she spoke, leaving a startled Lucian and sheepish Northcott in her wake.
“She means well,” Northcott cleared his throat, “But I’ll make certain that Mary hasn’t seated you next to each other.”
