Page 16 of When the Viscount Seduces
His father would be so glad to see that Lazarus had finally found the courage to do more, to face his fears. Only, Lazarus had been coerced into agreeing to the speech by Shefford’s father, the Duke of Henlow. Not because Henlow had persuaded him, but because Lazarus deeply opposed the duke’s position and felt compelled to speak against it.
“I’ve always had the passion,” Lazarus said quietly. “I just haven’t felt the need until now.”
Droxford nodded. “That is more than fair. Tamsin mentioned you have another reason for meeting Miss Price, that you intend to help her with her Season in some way.”
“Did she?” Lazarus wondered why Miss Price had revealed that part of their arrangement, but presumed she had a good reason. “I suppose I neglected to tell you about that aspect.Perhaps because I was certain you’d be more interested in my speech.”
“You know me well,” Droxford said with a rare flash of a smile. “You have my full support in this, and I’m not saying that because we are family.”
More than anything, Lazarus wanted to make his father proud. That at least one of his friends was behind him would have to be an acceptable replacement.
Feminine voices preceded the arrival of Tamsin and Miss Price. They entered the room, and Lazarus noted the immediate softening of Droxford’s features as his gaze fell on his wife. Lazarus was so pleased they’d found happiness together. No one deserved that more than Tamsin. Except perhaps Droxford.
“Good afternoon,” Lazarus said.
“Good afternoon,” Miss Price repeated. She carried a small fabric bag with pink flowers and a dark brown wooden handle. It complemented her rose-colored gown trimmed in a simple ivory lace. She did not wear a hat, and he surmised she must have left it in the entrance hall. “I’m glad we could arrange to meet today.” She glanced at their hosts. “Thank you both for agreeing to allow our scheme.”
“I am delighted to support the cause,” Droxford said. “We’ll leave you to it, then.” He gave Lazarus a meaningful look, perhaps to communicate that Lazarus had promised him that nothing inappropriate would occur.
Lazarus nodded in silent reply and watched as he and Tamsin left the library. They pulled the door mostly closed, but not entirely. That would not do.
He moved past Miss Price on his way to the door, then shut it firmly but quietly. Turning, he said, “Droxford informed me that you told Tamsin we were also meeting so I could help with your Season.”
“Oh yes. I hope you don’t mind. When I said that I would be helping you with your speech, she was surprised and perhaps even a little skeptical? Only because it seems an odd thing for me, of all people, to do. So, I mentioned the other part of our arrangement.”
“That seems reasonable. I commend your quick thinking.” Glancing toward the bag she carried, he asked, “What’s in there?”
“Some materials I brought to assess your abilities.”
“There’s a table over here where we can work.” He walked by her once again, this time to the opposite side of the room, to the rectangular table. There were four wooden chairs, one on each side.
Miss Price set her bag at one end of the table and removed her ivory kid gloves. Setting them next to the bag, she opened it and pulled out two books, some parchment, and a pencil.
“I also brought something,” he said. “My speech.” He removed the folded parchment from a pocket inside his coat and handed it to her.
“Oh, good. Though I don’t think we’ll get to that today. We’ve only an hour.” Clasping the speech, she glanced down at it before meeting his gaze. “Is this a copy for me?”
“I hadn’t thought to bring one.” Now he felt a little foolish.
“I should have asked for it,” she said sheepishly, her dark lashes sweeping briefly over her eyes. “If you don’t need it back immediately, I can copy it down later and return it to you next time we meet.”
“That would be fine.”
Smiling, she tucked the parchment into her bag.
“You’re not going to read it?” he asked.
Her eyes widened briefly. “I will, but did you want me to do so now?”
“No, that isn’t necessary.” He realized he had wanted to hear her opinion. But that could wait.
“Your handwriting is very neat,” she said.
He moved to stand near the chair at the end of the table opposite her bag. “That isn’t mine. I can’t write particularly well either—spelling the words out is difficult. I spoke my thoughts to my secretary, and he organized them into a speech.” Why did he suddenly feel nervous?
She pushed the books along the table until they rested in front of the chair on one of the long sides. “Is that how you draft your correspondence?”
“Yes. Since my secretary believes I dislike reading, I’ve told him my thoughts flow better if I can say them aloud, which isn’t a lie.”
