Page 24 of Society's Most Disreputable Gentleman

‘Fit enough to halt stampeding horses two days ago,’ Miss Neville inserted, giving him a smile.

Warmed by her compliment, he said, ‘I am much recovered.’

‘Will you be resuming your naval duties shortly?’ Trowbridge persisted.

His suspicions of Trowbridge’s intent revived, he said shortly, ‘Once I am fully recovered.’

‘Indeed. I heard the most shocking rumour in town yesterday,’ Trowbridge said, his tone studiedly casual. ‘That Mr Anders had served aboard ship as a common seaman! Of course, I informed the man that he must be mistaken. Stanhope’s cousin, a mere member of the ship’s company?’ Trowbridge laughed. ‘I cannot imagine how such a story got out.’

Was Trowbridge truly ignorant, assuming from his lineage that the informant must be mistaken? Somehow Greville didn’t think so. Best to meet attack with immediate counter-attack.

Greville fixed Trowbridge with a stern look. ‘Surely you know that, without the selfless service of those common seamen, who suffered years of deprivation whilst manning the blockade, Bonaparte might have succeeded in invading England? But with your esteemed father such a knowledgeable member of the Lords, as his assistant, of course you understand that truth.’

As swiftly as a chain following its anchor into the deep, Althea took up the cause. ‘Forgive me for disputing with a guest, Uncle James,’ she cried, ‘but I find it shocking of Lord Trowbridge to disparage our loyal seaman. Oh, the stories Mr Anders has related of their bravery and endurance under the harshest of circumstances!’

Trowbridge couldn’t have looked more surprised if the table leg had leaned over and bit him. With a glance at Lord Bronning that said girls not yet out would be better confined to the schoolroom, he replied, ‘I didn’t mean to diminish our seamen’s efforts, Miss Holton. The fact that, though most are very rough individuals, they none the less perform well in battle just demonstrates that even the most unpromising of material can be moulded into an effective fighting force, led by superior officers.’

Spoken like a seasoned naval veteran, Greville thought with disgust. It sounded like Trowbridge had been gossiping with Lieutenant Belcher. ‘Have you much personal acquaintance with seamen, my lord?’ he asked drily.

Trowbridge looked uncomfortable. ‘Well, no, but everyone knows—’

‘I thought not. Forgive me, but I fear you have been gravely misinformed. It’s true that many sailors are illiterate and come from humble backgrounds, and certainly the Navy has its share of rogues and reprobates, like every rank of society.’ Including yours, you privileged, self-satisfied, pampered bastard. ‘But in the main, the hard life roots out the undesirables, leaving only those with the skill and grit to survive long months at sea on short rations, performing difficult jobs under nearly impossible conditions. As Miss Holton mentioned, after my short time among them, I came away having personally witnessed more than a dozen instances of most uncommon bravery and self-sacrifice.’

‘I didn’t mean to imply that most are not valiant men,’ Trowbridge protested, retreating rapidly.

‘I’m sure you did not,’ Greville said. ‘But all this naval talk cannot be of much interest to the ladies. Mrs Williams, I believe you were about to describe the clever comedy you lately attended in Exeter?’

Nothing more was required to launch that lady off into a long recitation of the play, the theatre and all the notables in attendance. Satisfied, Greville sat back, while a disgruntled Trowbridge pasted a smile on his face and gave the appearance of listening with great interest to Mrs Williams. And for the first time since dinner began, Greville noted with delight, the earl’s son did not try to engage the attention of Miss Neville.

She gave Greville a speculative look. He bit back a grin. Trust that clever lady to have noticed that his impassioned speech masked the fact that he’d never directly answered Trowbridge’s question about his naval service. However, though he might owe the host and hostess who had opened their home to him some explanation of how and why he came to be at Ashton Grove, he certainly didn’t owe one to Trowbridge. His high-and-mighty lordship, Greville felt sure, would think twice before trying again to ambush plain Mr Anders.

Althea’s muffled giggle interrupted his thoughts. When he turned towards her, one eyebrow raised quizzically, she mouthed a ‘well done’, then swirled her hand in a circular motion before dropping it into her lap.

In recognition of his sinking of the conversational fireship Trowbridge had launched to destroy him? Amused, he grinned back.

Not until after Mrs Williams finally finished her lengthy account did the earl’s unusually subdued son once again address a remark to Miss Neville.

After returning him a brief reply, she rose and said, ‘I believe it’s time for the ladies to leave you gentlemen to your spirits. Mrs Williams, Althea, if you would accompany me?’

The men stood politely as the females left, Greville watching Miss Neville disappear with a mingled sense of triumph and sadness. She’d refrained from comment during his short skirmish with Trowbridge. Had his verbal vanquishing of her guest, whom she had to consider a prime potential suitor, angered her?

The possibility ought to remind him how fragile and temporary their ‘friendship’ was likely to be. Though in the battle of public opinion Althea was firmly among his crew, Miss Neville would almost certainly sail with Trowbridge in lamenting the low nature of his naval service. His cordial association with her was based merely on politeness and proximity, a connection that would never survive the parting when she left for London and he went on to pursue a new career.

The sense of loss that settled in his chest at acknowledging that fact was dismayingly sharper than it should have been.

Since Trowbridge now carefully refrained from even glancing in his direction, Greville was left in peace to sip his brandy. He considered making his excuses and departing at once—but then he’d not be able to see Miss Neville at tea and assess the damage.

His logical mind tried to convince the rest of him that forfeiting her friendship, however painful now, would prove wiser in the end, since ending it was inevitable anyway. The rest of him simply didn’t want to listen. Every illogical impulse impelled him to see her, mollify her and worm his way back into her favour, if he had indeed forfeited it by engaging Trowbridge.

Why this imperative to return to her good graces? Watching the brandy as he swirled it in the glass, he admitted that, for the short time she remained at Ashton Grove, he just didn’t want to deny himself the pleasure of her company, even though being with her was neither safe nor wise.

Not when desire suffused him whenever he gazed at her, emptying his mind of everything but the almost tangible need to taste and touch her. Even more dangerous was the hold she was coming to have over his thoughts and emotions.

The day was simply brighter when he walked with her. Like it or not, the music of her laughter lightened his heart. He felt an absurd sense of satisfaction when he managed a remark that pulled her from preoccupation with the many burdens she carried and provoked her into a laugh or a smile. A wave of exuberant delight washed through him each time he teased her into an exchange of wit, energising as the flash of cutlass blades.

He didn’t want to give that up. Surely the earth wouldn’t shift off its axis if he indulged himself in her company for the short time she had left at Ashton Grove.

Enough arguing, he thought. He didn’t mean to probe any further into the significance of his reluctance to abstain from her company. For a while at least, he’d be the ‘old Greville’, enjoying the moment without a worry for the future.

Perhaps because, without her presence in it, that future was beginning to seem a bit bleak.

Waiting for the bustle around the tea table to subside, Greville contented himself with simply observing Miss Neville—her lovely profile, the effortless grace with which she poured tea while maintaining a flow of conversation with her guests. When at last the crowd thinned and he approached, ready to man the scuppers and salvage the leaky vessel of their relationship, to his surprise, she leaned close. ‘Could I have a word with you later?’ she whispered. ‘It’s very important.’

‘Of course,’ he murmured back. ‘When and where?’

‘In the library. After our guests leave, and Papa and Althea go up to bed.’

He nodded. ‘I’ll meet you there.’

‘Thank you,’ she whispered, then turned away. ‘More tea, Mrs Williams?’

Could he really have just made an assignation with his host’s daughter? Greville wondered, still not sure he’d heard her properly. After running her words through his mind again and finding no other possible meaning, a thrill of anticipation sent his spirits soaring.

She might be seeking a private audience to dress him down for embarrassing a guest…but he didn’t think so. Could that invitation imply what he hoped it did? Though logic said there couldn’t possibly be an illicit meaning beneath the words, deep within, a fierce sensual expectation uncoiled.

He should put a halt to any wild imaginings before they began. This was no time to indulge in lustful hopes. Amanda looked troubled, not seductive. Almost certainly she needed his help, not his kisses.

---