Chapter Two
LUCIAN ALASTAIR DEVERELL, Sixth Earl of Ashford, did not often pay social visits. After two days in Plumpton, he now remembered why; he wasn’t very sociable.
Oh, he enjoyed the company of his old friend the duke of Northcott perfectly well. He was even fond of—if not sometimes confused by—his gregarious wife Mary. And their son George was a sweet, sturdy little thing, who put Lucian to mind of his own son Rowan when he was his age.
What tired Lucian was, that after spending all day surrounded by people, he was then expected to spend his evenings surrounded by even more people.
Usually he spent his nights alone with a good book on horticulture and a glass of brandy—not making small talk with strangers or battling against the meddlesome machinations of Mrs Mifford, his host’s mother-in-law.
The high point of his visit so far—which was due to stretch to a fortnight—was finally catching a glimpse of the moutan peonies from China that Mr Leek had recently added to his collection. Lucian was a great appreciator of rare flowers.
His encounter with the lovely Miss Sarah Hughes might also have been counted as a high point, were it not for the unfortunate fact that the young woman had witnessed his cowardly dive into the hedgerow to escape Mrs Mifford.
Even now, as he made his way downstairs to dinner, Lucian shivered with embarrassment at the memory. First impressions were of great import and he doubted very much that he’d presented a dignified front to Miss Hughes.
What unsettled him most—more than his scuffed Hobby boots, ruined Weston coat and crushed pride—was the inexplicable fact that her good opinion seemed to matter to him. Quite a lot. Which was faintly ridiculous, for he was an earl and he wasn’t accustomed to worrying about anyone’s opinion of him.
“There you are Deverell.”
The Duke of Northcott gave a hearty cry as Lucian entered the drawing room. As Northcott was as predisposed to displays of enthusiasm as he was, Lucian immediately grew wary.
“Brandy?” Northcott questioned as Lucian arrived at his side.
“Before dinner?”
“Why not?” Northcott gave a Gallic shrug as he thrust a glass at Lucian.
Lucian sipped it absently, his eyes surveying the drawing room.
The room was filled with an eclectic mix of people.
In the corner stood the dowager duchess bedecked in silks and feathers.
On the other side of the room the Duchess of Northcott was deep in conversation with her three sisters and their spouses.
By the French doors, he sighted Mr Mifford—the local vicar, and Northcott’s father in law—chatting with a jolly gentleman, who Lucian presumed to be part of the local landed-gentry.
By the fireplace Miss Charlotte Mifford stood talking with Miss Hughes.
Lucian’s stomach gave a little lurch as he spotted her, though he stubbornly attributed this to the brandy.
All looked calm and peaceful, he thought, wondering why on earth Northcott seemed so on edge.
“Why, Lord Deverell! There you are.”
Lucian stiffened as he recognised the syrupy sweet tones of Mrs Mifford. He turned to offer her a tight smile—the kind of smile that would make grown men balk—but Mrs Mifford was undeterred.
“You’re just the man I was hoping to see!
I took a stroll yesterday afternoon to Mr Leek’s, to view his greenhouses with my niece Charlotte—you know Charlotte, terribly pretty, set to cause quite the stir next season.
I wish to consult you on my plans for something similar at Primrose Cottage; a little bird told me you’re quite the horticulturist. Which is such a coincidence for it’s also a passion of mine!
And Charlotte’s, for that matter. I must check with Mary to make certain we’re seated together for dinner so we can discuss my plans further. ”
Mrs Mifford finished her gushing verbal barrage with a smile so manically bright that Lucian almost lifted a hand to shield his eyes from its beam. She rushed off at the same speed with which she spoke, leaving a startled Lucian and sheepish Northcott in her wake.
“She means well,” Northcott cleared his throat, “But I’ll make certain that Mary hasn’t seated you next to each other.”
Lucian made to reply but his attention was momentarily distracted by the sight of Miss Hughes as she walked across the drawing room.
Her composed beauty reminded him a camellia in winter, unexpected and impossible to overlook.
He thought back on their brief conversation and the advice that she had offered him regarding Mrs Mifford, and decided there and then to indulge in a little fun.
“Every man thinks his mother-in-law tiresome,” Lucian replied easily to his friend, “I can assure you that I find Mrs Mifford most charming and look forward to discussing gardening matters in depth with her over dinner.”
Northcott raised a brow, then cast a surreptitious glance at Lucian’s glass to make certain he hadn’t bolted his brandy. Once assured that he wasn’t inebriated, the duke nodded his head.
“Of course,” he agreed, though his tone was faintly disbelieving.
Lucian was saved from having to espouse any further on his imaginary regard for Mrs Mifford, as the gong sounded for dinner.
The couples in the room paired off—Miss Hughes, Lucian noted, took the arm of the jovial man who had earlier been speaking to Mr Mifford—leaving only Miss Charlotte Mifford without an escort.
Lucian gamely offered her his arm, an act which caused the poor chit to turn a violent shade of pale.
Mrs Mifford might be a determined matchmaker but she wasn’t a very good one—Lucian imagined that Charlotte Mifford would expire of terror if he so much as looked at her too earnestly.
Most men, he reflected, preferred not to be widowed before the wedding.
Or not at all, if the sudden jolt of pain in his chest was anything to go by as he was reminded of his status as a widower.
Lucian was silent as he escorted Miss Mifford into the dining room, his mind occupied by thoughts of his late wife.
Though it had been six years since her passing and time had softened the edges of his grief, he was still occasionally startled by sharp jolts of loss at her absence.
Grief, he had learned over the years ,was not a linear thing with a final end point.
Instead, it circled back endlessly; a journey that grew easier with time, perhaps, but one which never truly ended.
“I believe this is my seat, my lord,” Miss Mifford said, interrupting Lucian’s reverie.
As he bowed, Lucian allowed himself a wry smile at the obvious relief in her tone at finding that they were not to be seated together.
He bid her good evening and found his own seat, beside Mrs Mifford.
She did not note his arrival, her attention caught instead by the Dowager Duchess, who was laughing gaily at something Mr Mifford had just said.
Mrs Mifford’s eyes narrowed at the sound of the dowager’s laugh, her rosebud mouth pouting with annoyance. There was jealousy there, Lucian noted, tucking the observation away for later use.
The jolly looking gentleman who had escorted Miss Hughes to the dining room took the seat to Lucian’s left and quickly introduced himself as John Hughes, brother to Sir Charles who held a local baronetcy, father of Miss Sarah Hughes, and holder of a large farm nearby.
“I envy you your soil, Mr Hughes,” Lucian commented, “My main seat lies near Abergavenny and the land is really only good for farming sheep.”
“I’ll soon be farming sheep myself, if Silas Hardwick gets his way,” Mr Hughes replied darkly.
As Lucian hadn’t the faintest idea who this Silas Hardwick was, he was grateful when Mrs Mifford, interrupted them.
“Is it true, then?” she cried, leaning forward so she could see past Lucian. “Is he really planning to divert the stream?”
“It appears so,” Mr Hughes said, his dark eyes flashing with anger.
“He had a surveyor in from Bath who let slip to Angus in The Ring, that he intends to cut a new course from the northern bend of the stream to direct the flow into a dam at his own property. And that solicitor of his has been sniffing around all month, looking for this parish record or that—trying to ascertain who owns what rights.”
“Why, that’s scandalous,” Mrs Mifford clutched a hand to her bosom. “That stream feeds several properties before it enters The Churn—including yours. He can’t be allowed to get away with it.”
“Several folk have already declared that they won’t let him,” Mr Hughes agreed, his tone so grim that Lucian quickly guessed that the grouping of threatening voices included Mr Hughes.
“It was bad enough when he appeared to be a philanderer,” Mrs Mifford took a large sip of wine from her glass.
“Now he’s a thief as well. Our Mr Hardwick won’t be winning any prizes for popularity at the next village fête.
Tell me, my lord, do you intend to stay for the fête?
My niece Charlotte—you know Charlotte, the terribly pretty girl you escorted to dinner—bakes a wonderful raspberry roulade. You must stay to sample it!”
Lucian had to admire the swiftness with which Mrs Mifford directed the conversation back to her preferred subject.
Had she not been born a woman, perhaps she might have thrived in politics—even Charles James Fox, for all his endurance and wine tolerance, might have surrendered to her before the dessert course.
“I am scheduled to leave in a fortnight,” Lucian demurred.
“I’m certain that I could convince The Ladies’ Society to bring forward the date,” she countered, parrying his shot like they were playing battledore and shuttlecock.
Realising that his opponent was unlikely to back down unless he employed more nefarious tactics—and because he was feeling petty—Lucian decided to pull out his trump card.
“I have heard that Georgianna is famous for her baking,” he fibbed - aware that the dowager duchess likely did not even know her way to a kitchen, let alone around one.
His comment hit the mark; Mrs Mifford's eyes narrowed in annoyance.
“Her Grace professes to be a master of many arts,” she sniffed before taking another large sip of her wine.
Sensing victory, Lucian leaned closer to her to whisper conspiratorially; "Including matchmaking. She seems to believe that your niece might make me a good match."
He sat back and watched with amusement as a range of emotions crossed Mrs Mifford's face; primarily anger and annoyance.
“I’m sure you see,” Lucian continued, warming now to his act, “As a woman who has made successful matches—for not one but four daughters—that your niece and I would be terribly unsuited.”
Mrs Mifford's face was a picture of confusion as she internally battled between her original plan and Lucian’s overt flattery. In the end, her desire to be recognised as superior won out and she fluttered her eyelashes demurely.
“I couldn’t imagine anyone less suited to be your bride than Charlotte,” she agreed, rolling her pretty blue eyes at the very idea.
Their conversation was interrupted as a stream of footmen arrived to serve the first course of soup. Lucian was savouring his victory and the excellent Soup à la Reine, when Mrs Mifford interrupted his enjoyment of both.
“If not Charlotte, then who?” she questioned in a whisper.
Lucian stifled a sigh as he set his spoon down.
He had congratulated himself too soon; as he had only half heeded Miss Hughes’ advice, he had only himself to blame.
He had made Mrs Mifford believe that she was the one who had decided Charlotte was not suited to be his bride, but had not offered her another assignment to occupy her attention.
Not another assignment, Lucian corrected himself, another match. His eyes alighted on Miss Hughes—who was laughing gaily with the duchess—and he felt himself smile as he made a decision.
“I am rather taken by Miss Hughes,” Lucian confided in a whisper.
He’d meant it as a distraction for Mrs Mifford, a clever ploy to steer her away from poor Miss Charlotte—but as the words left his mouth, something strange happened. He realised he didn’t entirely mind the idea.
In fact, the thought of spending more time with Miss Hughes brought with it a faint thrill of excitement—which was a novelty, for Lucian hadn’t felt much at all the past five years.
Mrs Mifford’s eyes lit up; “I was just thinking what a fine pairing you’d make. She’s a lovely, sensible young lady, with experience running a large household and raising young boys.”
Miss Hughes also had dancing eyes, a come-hither smile, and a bottom one could perch a pint on—but Lucian refrained from informing Mrs Mifford of this. And, besides, as she was the one who had suggested Lucian redirect Mrs Mifford’s course, it was only right that she join him in the slipstream.
“My dear Mrs Mifford, I beg you humbly for your help in courting the girl,” he solemnly replied, raising his glass in toast.
Being a little wicked had never felt more fun.