Chapter Thirteen
“Jealous, are we?” Drake murmured, materializing beside Katherine as she re-entered the drawing room from the terrace.
He had been watching her all evening, noting each flash of annoyance that crossed her face whenever Lady Elizabeth touched his arm or leaned close to whisper some inconsequential observation.
The progression had been fascinating to observe—from initial irritation to barely concealed displeasure, culminating in her abrupt escape to the terrace.
Katherine’s spine stiffened as though she’d been struck. “I beg your pardon?”
“Your hasty retreat to the terrace,” Drake elaborated, keeping his voice low enough that the other guests couldn’t overhear. “One might almost think you found Lady Elizabeth’s attentions to me... distressing.”
“What an absurd notion,” Katherine replied, her chin lifting defiantly though a tell-tale flush coloured her cheeks. “I merely needed fresh air. The room was becoming rather warm.”
“Indeed?” Drake allowed his gaze to drift meaningfully toward Lady Elizabeth, who was watching them with thinly veiled curiosity from across the room. “And it had nothing to do with Miss Crawford’s particularly effusive admiration?”
“Why should I care who flatters you?” Katherine retorted, her voice sharper than she likely intended. “You are free to pursue whomever you wish.”
The vehemence of her denial was so transparently false that Drake couldn’t suppress a grin. “Of course. My mistake.”
Katherine’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “You seem remarkably pleased with yourself, Lord Greythorne. Enjoying your parade of prospective brides?”
“Not particularly,” Drake admitted, surprising himself with his candour. “Though your brother has certainly assembled an impressive selection. Lady Elizabeth is considered this Season’s incomparable, I’m told.”
“She is beautiful,” Katherine acknowledged stiffly. “Young. Well-connected. Precisely the sort of bride one would expect an earl to choose.”
There was something in her tone—a carefully suppressed bitterness—that intrigued Drake far more than Lady Elizabeth’s practiced charms had all evening.
“And yet,” he said quietly, “I find myself unmoved by her considerable attributes.”
Katherine’s gaze snapped to his, genuine surprise replacing her defensive posture. “Unmoved? But she’s—”
“Lovely. Accomplished. Eager to please,” Drake finished for her. “And utterly devoid of any quality that might sustain my interest beyond this evening’s dinner.”
A flash of something that looked suspiciously like satisfaction crossed Katherine’s face before she schooled her features into neutral curiosity. “How unfortunate. And the other ladies my brother has presented? Lady Eleanor seems intelligent, at least.”
Drake glanced across the room at the dark-haired young woman in question, who was engaged in animated conversation with Sir William Harding. “She discussed poetry at length. Impressive knowledge of Wordsworth.”
“Yet you remain uninterested,” Katherine observed.
“I remain... unconvinced,” Drake corrected carefully. “Marriage is a lifelong commitment. I prefer not to make such decisions based on a single dinner conversation.”
Katherine’s lips curved in a small, sardonic smile. “How practical. Though with your deadline approaching, extended courtship seems an unaffordable luxury.”
“I’m well aware of my constraints,” Drake replied, a hint of irritation creeping into his tone. “But I refuse to be rushed into the most significant decision of my life merely because some long-dead Halston decreed an arbitrary timeline.”
Before Katherine could respond, the Duke of Wexford approached them, a glass of brandy in each hand.
“Greythorne,” he said genially, offering one of the glasses to Drake. “I hope you’re enjoying the evening. I see you’ve had an opportunity to become acquainted with several eligible young ladies.”
“Your hospitality is most generous, Your Grace,” Drake replied diplomatically, accepting the brandy. “Lady Elizabeth, in particular, has been most attentive.”
“Excellent, excellent,” the duke said, his satisfaction evident. “She comes from an impeccable family. Her father and I are on several committees together—fine character, excellent bloodlines.”
Katherine made a small sound that might have been a suppressed snort. Both men turned to her with raised eyebrows.
“Forgive me,” she said, her expression too innocent to be believed. “Something caught in my throat. If you’ll excuse me, I believe Lady Ashford is signalling for my attention.”
She moved away with a rustle of silk skirts, leaving Drake momentarily bereft of her sharp-tongued company. He watched her cross the room, noting the elegant line of her neck and the proud set of her shoulders beneath deep blue silk.
“My sister seems to have developed a genuine interest in Greythorne’s welfare,” the duke observed, following Drake’s gaze. “She speaks frequently of the improvements you’re implementing.”
Drake dragged his attention back to his host. “Lady Katherine’s knowledge of the estate has proven invaluable. Her concern for the tenants, in particular, is commendable.”
“Indeed.” The duke studied Drake thoughtfully. “Though I trust her involvement won’t complicate your eventual marriage. Some ladies might find such an arrangement unusual.”
There was a subtle warning in the duke’s tone that Drake couldn’t miss. Wexford was concerned that Katherine’s continued involvement with Greythorne might create tensions with Drake’s future countess.
The irony nearly made Drake laugh aloud. If only the duke knew that his carefully orchestrated presentation of eligible young ladies had only served to highlight how vastly superior Katherine was to every one of them.
“Any lady I choose will understand my respect for Lady Katherine’s expertise,” Drake replied carefully. “The welfare of Greythorne and its people takes precedence over conventional arrangements.”
The duke looked mildly surprised at this declaration. “A progressive view. Though I suppose your years in America have given you a different perspective on such matters.”
“They have indeed,” Drake agreed, grateful for the convenient explanation for his unconventional attitudes. “I’ve found that valuing competence over convention generally yields better results.”
Their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of Lady Elizabeth, who seemed determined not to allow Drake to escape her attention for long.
“Your Grace, Lord Greythorne,” she greeted them with a perfect curtsy. “I hope I’m not intruding?”
“Not at all, my dear,” the duke assured her warmly. “In fact, I was just about to suggest that Greythorne show you the collection of miniatures in the small gallery. My late mother was an avid collector—some quite remarkable pieces.”
Drake recognized the transparent attempt to provide them with a chaperoned but relatively private opportunity for conversation. Under other circumstances, he might have appreciated the duke’s efforts. Tonight, they merely reminded him of the trap slowly closing around him.
“I would be delighted,” Lady Elizabeth said, turning expectant eyes to Drake.
Refusing would be unconscionably rude, particularly to his host.
With a resigned internal sigh, Drake offered his arm to Lady Elizabeth. “It would be my pleasure.”
As she placed her hand on his arm with obvious satisfaction, Drake glanced across the room to find Katherine watching them, her expression carefully blank. Only the slight tightening of her fingers around her fan betrayed any emotion.
For reasons he chose not to examine too closely, that small sign of displeasure gave him a perverse satisfaction.
The small gallery was adjacent to the drawing room, offering the illusion of privacy while remaining visible enough to satisfy propriety.
Lady Elizabeth moved close to the glass-fronted cabinet that housed the miniatures, exclaiming over their beauty while Drake made appropriate responses on autopilot.
His attention, however, remained in the drawing room, where he could see Katherine now engaged in conversation with Lord Barrington.
The older man was leaning toward her with obvious interest, and though Katherine’s posture remained perfectly correct, she appeared to be listening attentively to whatever he was saying.
An unexpected surge of possessiveness took Drake by surprise. The idea of Katherine with another man—even one as harmless and proper as Lord Barrington—was strangely intolerable.
“Don’t you agree, Lord Greythorne?” Lady Elizabeth’s voice penetrated his distraction.
Drake realized he had no idea what she had been saying. “Forgive me, Lady Elizabeth. My thoughts were momentarily elsewhere.”
She followed his gaze back to the drawing room, her pretty features arranged in a small moue of disappointment when she identified the object of his distraction.
“Lady Katherine seems quite popular this evening,” she observed, a hint of petulance creeping into her tone. “Though I suppose that’s to be expected. Widows have a certain freedom in Society that unmarried ladies might envy.”
There was a subtle barb beneath the observation that Drake didn’t care for. “Lady Katherine’s popularity stems from her intelligence and character, I suspect. Qualities that transcend any particular social status.”
Lady Elizabeth looked slightly taken aback by his defence. “Of course. I meant no disrespect. It’s admirable how she’s managed since the late earl’s passing. So independent.”
She imbued the word with a faintly disapproving emphasis that suggested independence was not a quality she particularly valued in women. Drake found his already limited interest in Lady Elizabeth diminishing further.
“Independence of mind is an admirable trait in anyone,” he said pointedly. “I’ve always found it preferable to blind adherence to convention.”
Lady Elizabeth blinked, clearly uncertain how to respond to this unconventional sentiment from a man who, by all outward appearances, represented the very pinnacle of aristocratic society.