Page 20 of Impeccable
As the final course was served, Gregory wondered if he might be able to take Mrs. Renshaw onto the terrace later. It was bloody cold tonight as they neared mid-December, but he wanted just a few moments alone with her.
No, he wanted much more than that. To that end, an idea had formulated in his mind—a wild, shocking, sure-to-be-rejected scheme—that he couldn’t dispel. He only hoped he didn’t horrify Mrs. Renshaw with the suggestion.
Dinner drew to a close, and the ladies rose to adjourn to the drawing room. Gregory helped Mrs. Renshaw from her chair and wished her luck with the game—and, more importantly, with keeping his brother’s wife at bay.
After the women left, Creighton invited Gregory to take the now-empty seat to his right. Over port, he described the refurbishments he had planned, including the addition of an orangery.
Clifford jumped into the conversation at every opportunity, to the point that Gregory stopped trying to say anything. Creighton seemed to notice this, his expression patient with a mild, almost imperceptible edge of frustration.
Mr. Wadleigh, the constable, sat to Gregory’s right. In his forties, he sported thick graying hair with even thicker brows. Speaking so only Gregory would hear him, he said, “His lordship has a great deal to say. How do you ever get a word in?”
“It can be difficult. Occasionally, I just abandon hope.”
“We all certainly miss your father around here.” Wadleigh’s tone was sympathetic. “Dare we hope you’ll be staying at Witney Court for some time?”
“Only through the holidays.” After nearly nine months since his father’s death, it was time to get back to his life.
Wadleigh lifted his glass to Gregory before draining what little was left. “I hope you’ll visit.”
Gregory finished his port as well, which ended up being timely. Creighton stood, saying it was time to join the ladies. Presumably, he’d had more than enough of Clifford’s verbosity.
The ladies were indeed playing the embroidery game. And it was Susan’s turn. Her face was splotched with red, making her look angry or discouraged or both as she furiously poked the needle through the linen.
“Time’s up!” Mrs. Creighton called, eyeing a small hourglass on the table beside her.
Susan’s shoulders slumped and she let out a soft hiss, sounding like a snake that had missed its prey. “Is this better?” she asked, holding up the linen.
There were two…shapes. One looked somewhat like an oddly formed bean. The other, from which the needle was still protruding, looked as though it might be half of a…hand? Were they both supposed to represent the same object, or was she on her second turn? No, she’d asked if this was better, which seemed to indicate she’d made more than one attempt.
“Is it a hand?” someone asked.
“It’s aleaf.” Susan tossed the needlework onto a table. “This is a terrible game.” Her gaze drifted toward Mrs. Renshaw. Was that because she’d suggested it? Or was she merely marking her target for when the game was dismissed, which would likely be now since the gentlemen had arrived.
“Well done, Lady Witney,” Mrs. Creighton said. “This game can be quite daunting the first time you play.” She looked to her husband, who came up beside her chair. “Shall we play cards instead?”
Gregory saw Susan’s eyes narrow at Mrs. Renshaw in a decidedly predatory manner. He didn’t hesitate. Moving swiftly to Mrs. Renshaw, he offered her his hand. “Shall we take that stroll on the terrace?” He spoke as if they’d planned it.
“Yes, thank you.” She placed her hand in his, and he relished the surge of anticipation that shot through him.
When she stood, he whispered, “Where is the terrace?”
“Just through here.” Taking his arm, she guided him to the next room and out the door to the terrace, where a brisk, cold breeze greeted them.
“It’s too cold,” he said, trying to hide his disappointment. “You don’t even have a wrap.”
“One moment.” She stepped back inside and returned with a thick shawl draped about her shoulders. “Heloise keeps a few shawls by the door for just this purpose. One never knows when the urge to go outside will strike.”
“Ingenious. We won’t linger too long. I don’t want you to catch cold.”
“I may pretend that I do so that I may retreat to my chamber in order to avoid Lady Witney.”
“That’s why I swept you out here. I recognized the predatory glint in her eyes.”
“I wondered.” Mrs. Renshaw shot him a grateful smile. “I appreciate it.”
They walked to the end of the terrace. He would have suggested they continue into the garden, but it had rained earlier, and the ground was likely quite soft. Instead, they turned and started back.
Gregory was right—he couldn’t keep her out here too long. It was now or some other time, and he still didn’t have a future engagement planned with her. “I hope you won’t think me too forward, but I have a proposition for you.”
