Page 37 of A Duke Too Far (The Way to a Lord's Heart 4)

A gentleman by the window snorted. He was youngish, fashionably dressed, and holding a glass of claret.

“Then you don’t care to stay abreast of what polite society is about?” Lady Phoebe asked. “Don’t care to know whose son has gone out to India to make his fortune, orwhohas become engaged towhom?”

Althea gently disentangled her arm from her hostess’s and moved off a few steps to sniff at a bouquet of daffodils. She rearranged two of the flowers so the one with the tallest stem stood in the center of the bouquet.

“Unless one of the parties to the engagement is myself or an immediate family member, such news isn’t urgently relevant to me, is it, Lady Phoebe? Of course, I wish all couples contemplating matrimony much joy, but then, I wish all mankind joy.” She peered at some cutwork yellowing behind framed glass above the daffodils. “Shall we be about the introductions?”

The guests watched this exchange with as much subtlety as spectators ringing a prize fight. Althea knew that her ensemble showed her to good advantage and made Lady Phoebe’s finery overdone by comparison.

Rothhaven had been right on so many counts.

The introductions proceeded without further skirmishing, and the gentleman holding the claret turned out to be William, Viscount Ellenbrook. He was enjoying Lady Phoebe’s hospitality on the way to his own estates in the West Riding. Unlike several of the guests, his manner was genuinely cordial, and Althea was relieved to find him seated to her left at table.

“Did you answer her ladyship honestly earlier?” he asked quietly as footmen tended to the first remove.

“Regarding?”

“Why you are avoiding London. I myself am dodging at least three heiresses whom my dear mama has declared would suit me wonderfully. I’m sure they are lovely young ladies, but Mama married Papa. Her judgment in marital matters is not to be trusted. More wine?”

“Please.” The wine was unremarkable, the fare equally so, but at least Ellenbrook was good company. He kept his hands to himself, he did not gossip, and he did not over-imbibe. Althea was on the verge of declaring the evening a qualified success when the ladies rose to take their tea in the parlor.

“Might I call upon you, your ladyship?” Ellenbrook asked, as he stood politely with the rest of the gentlemen.

Lady Phoebe clearly heard the question, as had her niece, Miss Sybil Price, seated on Ellenbrook’s other side.

As had half the table, while Althea hadn’t seen his lordship’s request coming.

She had three choices. She could accept Ellenbrook’s overture, which would be polite, and also consistent with her wishes. Ellenbrook was good-humored, intelligent, and handled himself well in company. He merited a cordial reply.

Althea’s second choice was to politely refuse, making some vague reference to renovations in progress, Millicent’s ill health, or another excuse for turning away callers. This was the choice she should have made, given the despair in Miss Price’s eyes, and the venom in Lady Phoebe’s. In London, Althea had resorted to all manner of fictions to placate the Miss Prices and Lady Phoebes lurking beside every potted palm.

And what had that accomplished, other than to encourage the same women to slight her and talk about her behind their fans?

“I am always happy to receive my friends and neighbors at Lynley Vale,” Althea replied. “Lady Phoebe can give you my direction, but I will warn you: If you make any attempt to steal my cook, you will be escorted from the property.”

That general invitation—Althea’s third option—should have been less upsetting to Miss Price. If the young lady had any initiative, she’d accompany Ellenbrook on the call. As Althea made her way to the drawing room, she realized she honestly did not care how Lady Phoebe regarded the exchange.

“Aunt, I do believe you’ve forgotten to offer Lady Althea a spot of tea,” Miss Price said, when every other female guest in the parlor had been served.

“Did I? Oh, my lady, I beg your pardon. Let me send for a fresh pot.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Althea said, certain the fresh pot would be tepid and weak, when it eventually arrived.

“I must insist. Tell me, what do you hear from your family these days?”

Lady Phoebe’s question felt like the handshake offered before a champion pugilist pounded an upstart challenger into the dirt. “They are keeping well, thank you.”

“You must miss them terribly. Do come sit beside me and tell me the news from your dear sister-in-law. Has Her Grace been blessed with a son in her nursery yet?”

Nasty, nasty woman. Althea moved closer to the sofa, there being nowhere else to sit, and consigned her hostess to the ranks of verbal brawlers. No science to her meanness, no subtlety.

“Their Graces count their three daughters foremost among their many blessings.”

Her ladyship took a slow sip of tea, which was rude in the extreme when a guest had not yet been served. “A peer needs an heir, though, you must agree. Such a pity when a title goesbegging. One never knows who the College of Arms will turn up when they grow desperate.” Her tone said that a wealthy and honorable banker inheriting a ducal title—as Quinn had—was the worst insult the peerage could have suffered.

A few weeks ago, Althea would have tried to change the subject, or worse, she would have agreed with Lady Phoebe’s bile in the vain hope her ladyship would be placated. Since then, Althea had made Rothhaven’s acquaintance, had kissed him, and had left him to his walled garden and his somber hall.

She dreamed of him nightly, she missed him by day with a hollow, hopeless ache. Compared to those sentiments, dealing with Lady Phoebe had become like swatting at a persistent housefly. Her ladyship was impossible to ignore and utterly undeserving of attention.

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