Eight Hunting Lyons (The Lyon’s Den Connected World)

Chapter Thirteen

O liver entered the drawing room and frowned. The places were set just as they had been the evening prior. He was at one end of the long table and Madeline was at the other. How on earth was he supposed to utilize proximity, as Mrs. Wilson had suggested, when she seemed so determined to keep them apart?

Gesturing to one of the footmen, he said, “On whose orders was the table laid in such a manner?”

“Mr. Saunders, my lord,” the footman replied. “He always oversees the setting of the table.”

“I see. Get him for me.”

The footman gulped, nodded and then took off in a flash. Moments later, the dour-faced butler entered. “You wished to see me, my lord?”

“Yes, Saunders. Is it really necessary that my bride and I dine twelve feet apart?”

“Fourteen, my lord.”

“What?” Oliver demanded.

“Fourteen feet, my lord. The table is fourteen feet in length. We have the option of increasing it to eighteen should you and Lady Foxmore ever wish to entertain,” the butler replied.

“I do not care if it expands to a hundred feet, Saunders. The point is that I would prefer Lady Foxmore be seated near the head of the table, nearer to me. It is impossible to enjoy any conversation at dinner when we must shout over the top of the centerpieces and candelabra.”

The butler frowned. “I see, my lord. I was unaware that you would desire such a breech in etiquette. Naturally, if it is your wish, I will see it done. I should hope that Lady Foxmore will not think poorly of the household staff based on such—”

“Lady Foxmore will not care a whit. But if you do not stop preaching about it, I most certainly shall! Move the place settings. I shall be in the library until dinner.”

“Yes, my lord,” the butler said.

The words might have been meek, but the man’s demeanor was anything but. Put upon, yes. Long-suffering, most certainly. The butler appeared as if someone had just given him great disappointment. And no doubt, he had. Sebastian had been the one who understood and appreciated protocol and etiquette. He’d been the one who had embraced wholeheartedly all the aspects of society living that Oliver himself found so tedious and abhorrent.

Once in his library, Oliver strolled to his desk and poured himself a small amount of brandy. Mindful not to consume as much as he had the previous night so that he might be a marginally pleasant dinner companion instead of focusing all his energy on not planting his face into the soup bowl, he sipped it gingerly and walked to the doors that opened out onto the terrace.

Taking in the twilight, he savored the slightly cooler air of the evening and the scent of the garden below. Then he heard voices. Low, feminine, sweet. They came from the morning room. Curious, he moved closer. Then closer still.

He could hear Madeline speaking but it took the longest time for him to recognize whom she might be speaking to. When at last he heard the answering voice in something more than a dulcet whisper, he knew it was Mrs. Wilson. What in the world was she doing in the morning room with his bride?

Moving closer still, he hovered just to left of the French doors that opened off the morning room and strained to hear their conversation.

Madeline smiled as she refilled the tea cups. They were on their second pot. It had been Lucy’s idea to put a bit of brandy into it. Heavens, it was so terribly warm!

“Thank you so much for visiting with me, Mrs. Wilson. I’m so glad to have gotten to know more about you and your very interesting life before coming to work at Easton House,” Madeline stated.

“Oh, my! I should never have stayed so long, but it’s been such a joy to speak with you, my lady. I cannot tell you how glad we are to see Master Oliver—forgive me, Madam—Lord Foxmore settled with a new bride. It does my heart good, you see? I’ve been here with him since he was a boy. Ever since his poor mother passed,” Mrs. Wilson said.

“He was very close to her, wasn’t he?”

“Oh, aye. Like peas in a pod, they were. Always digging in the dirt together. She loved her flowers, she did. And now, so does he. Apples never fall too far from the tree, I think, unless they’ve a good reason to.”

“Well, I wished to speak with you, Mrs. Wilson, about something very important. I’m not certain if you are aware of this, but I was not from the same social class as Lord Foxmore. My father is only one generation removed from trade and my mother was part of the country gentry, but was never launched in London society. The truth is, I’ve never learned anything that would be necessary to be the wife of an earl. I cannot act as his hostess nor can I run a household like this with any sort of skill. I fear I am perfectly useless. That being said, I am certainly not blind and I can see quite clearly how well and efficiently you run this household.”

Mrs. Wilson beamed. “Oh, my lady. That is music to my ears.”

“So, please, you do not need my approval on things. You should simply continue on as you did before I arrived… though I would take it as a kindness if you could deign to educate me in all the ways it seems my mother failed. Teach me what I need to know to take care of this house and keep it running so that I do not embarrass myself or Oliver—Lord Foxmore.”

Mrs. Wilson’s eyes narrowed. Slightly foxed on her brandy-laced tea or not, the woman appeared quite shrewd. “You’re rather taken with him, aren’t you?”

Madeline blushed. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“I mean,” Mrs. Wilson said, leaning in and whispering in a voice that was very far from an actual whisper in volume, “that you are smitten with Lord Foxmore. I might have known him since he was a boy, but I’m not blind to the man he has become. I know how handsome the ladies find him. And that you are not immune to his charms.”

“He is very handsome,” Madeline agreed. “Is there a reason—never mind. I should not ask such things.”

“Is there a reason he did not come to your bed,” Mrs. Wilson supplied, drinking deeply from her tea cup.

Madeline blushed to the roots of her hair. “Yes! I know I shouldn’t broach such a subject with you… but, is it me? Does he not find me attractive? Am I not the sort of wife he wished for? Or is it something else? Is he perhaps unable to be a true husband to me?”

“Unable?” Mrs. Wilson cackled. “I should think not. He’s quite able and has been since he was a young lad. Had to give many a serving maid a stern talking to over batting their eyes at him, I have. And given him a stern talking to then, as well, about not encouraging them!”

“Oh,” Madeline said, utterly crestfallen. “So it is me. He just doesn’t—well, we undertook this marriage for very unusual reasons. I should not expect it to run its course in the usual way, should I?”

Mrs. Wilson’s laughter faded. “No. No. No. That’s not of things at all! I believe, Lady Foxmore, that Lord Foxmore is attempting, in his own ham-fisted and high-handed way, to be patient and give you time to know him better.”

“What in heaven’s name for?”

Mrs. Wilson shrugged, refilled her tea cup, and replied, “We’ve no notion why men do half the things they do, my lady. And they’ve no notion why they do the other half.”

Madeline sipped from her own cup. It was perhaps the most sensible thing anyone had ever explained to her about men.