Chapter 5
Anne refused to admit that Mr. Miles Grey terrified her.
Dizziness threatened her when he approached and offered to escort her to supper, but she recovered the moment her gaze latched onto Lord Grumpy-Trousers.
Disconcerting though it was, a strange evil satisfaction rose in her bosom at the dejected expression on his face.
“I would be delighted, Mr. Grey.” She slid her hand on top of Mr. Grey’s arm, sending Lord Moody-Manning what she hoped was a sweet smile.
But the smile slipped from her lips the moment the viscount bowed gracefully to Miranda and offered his arm.
Oh.
At least Miranda appeared surprised, a curious look crossing her face as she glanced toward Mr. Grey.
For such an intimidating man, Mr. Grey’s eyes were extraordinarily kind. Even his deep voice softened as he spoke. Unlike Lord Grump, who veritably growled. “Are you enjoying Hartridge House, Miss Weatherby?”
How to answer? Lovely as it was, the estate should have enthralled her, but memories of her embarrassing one-sided attachment to Mr. Merrick—that is, the Duke of Burwood—were everywhere.
She’d made such a ninny of herself that summer four years ago.
Hopefully, neither Burwood nor Honoria had informed Mr. Grey about the incident.
“My family and I only arrived early this afternoon, but I expect it will be a pleasant stay.” If I can avoid His Dourship, that is.
“I beg your pardon?” Mr. Grey leaned down toward her, which from his height was quite a distance. “Who is His Dourship? Surely not my cousin or Mr. Beckham. Both are most congenial fellows.”
Anne’s hand flew to her mouth. Did she say that aloud? Her cheeks heated. “Please forget I said that.”
“Said what?” Mr. Grey grinned and returned his attention ahead of them as he led her into the dining room.
As luck would have it—bad luck that is—Mr. Grey led her to a chair next to Lord Manning.
His Grumpiness gave a slight nod but remained standing while she took her seat. “Miss Weatherby.”
“Lord Manning.” She hoped the icy tone of her words would keep his wine chilled all through supper.
Fortunately, once the first course was served, seated on her other side, Mr. Grey kept her occupied, and she tried not to think about the other man next to her.
Even if he did smell so wonderful he made her mouth water.
Well, it could have been the food, but turtle soup wasn’t Anne’s favorite, and none of the food smelled like shaving soap and citrusy bergamot.
Clean and fresh. She leaned toward Mr. Grey and surreptitiously sniffed.
Sandalwood and leather. Nice, but to her dismay, not as heavenly as Lord Grump’s scent.
I will not think about Lord Grumpy-Trousers.
Mr. Grey’s stifled chuckle informed her she’d done it again. She darted a glance toward the grump.
A hint of annoyance pinched the corners of her nemesis’s mouth. “Lady Miranda, do you ride? Perhaps you and I could take a tour about Burwood’s estate on the morrow. Chaperoned, of course.”
Mr. Grey’s chuckle immediately ceased.
Interesting.
“Or perhaps,” the odious man who smelled so divine continued, “Burwood might host a fox hunt.”
Everyone stilled. In the middle of taking a sip of his wine, Burwood choked then quickly blotted his mouth with his serviette. Spoons paused halfway to people’s lips. Eyes widened, and heads turned in Anne’s direction.
Lord Grump set down his glass of wine. “Did I say something offensive?”
Mr. Grey leaned down and whispered, “Why is everyone looking at you, Miss Weatherby?”
Leave it to Lord Dismal to bring up fox hunts and remind everyone of her horrible accident leading to her false presumptions regarding Burwood’s affection.
Andrew cleared his throat. “As long as Anne doesn’t participate.”
Strained laughter rose from Burwood, Mr. Beckham, and Mr. Pratt. Honoria sent Anne an apologetic glance before returning her attention to her soup.
That should have put an end to things. But oh no. Lord Grump had to pursue it. “Don’t you ride, Miss Weatherby?”
Anne squared her shoulders—which was a mistake because, in the process, she accidentally brushed against Lord Grump’s arm. “I’m an excellent rider, thank you.”
“Then I don’t understand. Do you find fox hunting objectionable?” Why would he not let the subject lie?
Heat rushed up her neck, flaming her cheeks. “No.”
“Anne had a horrible fall from her horse during the hunt Drake held four years ago. She took a terrible blow to the head,” Honoria said, sending Anne another apologetic look. “We were all so concerned for her welfare.”
Somehow, Anne found the way Lord Grump’s eyebrows drew down over his lovely green eyes rather endearing, as if he were concerned about her well-being.
However, his next question put that silly notion to rest. “Then why were people laughing?”
Pink blossomed on Honoria’s cheeks. “I’ll explain later, Colin.”
Colin. Anne had almost forgotten that was Lord Grump’s Christian name. Why did it have to be so . . . so nice? It should be something like Horace or Horton, which would sound like a cat trying to cough up a hairball.
A giggle rose at the idea.
“You also find your fall humorous, Miss Weatherby?” Horton—erm, Colin—asked.
“No, sir. I was thinking about something entirely different.”
“Care to enlighten us?”
“No. I don’t think so. A woman must keep some things a mystery.” She gave her chin a defiant jerk for good measure.
Across the table from Anne, Charlotte snorted a laugh and received an elbow nudge from Mr. Beckham. She hitched a brow at her husband. “What? They sound like us.”
“Then I pity poor Manning.” With a slight pause, Mr. Beckham grinned. “Or perhaps . . . not.”
Mr. Grey stifled a cough with his serviette. “If your accident hasn’t put you off riding entirely, and your brother approves, perhaps we could join Lord Manning and Lady Miranda tomorrow.”
Did Lord Grump just growl?
“If Anne promises not to attempt anything foolish”—Andrew gave her a pointed look as if adding a silent addendum of as she usually does—“and Burwood supplies the most docile of horses for her, I don’t see why not.”
“Miss Weatherby?” Mr. Grey waited for her approval.
“Very well. That is, if Lord Manning and Lady Miranda don’t object. I would hate to think we were intruding.”
“No intrusion at all,” Miranda said. “We’d be happy to have you join us, wouldn’t we, Lord Manning?”
“Of course.” The pulse in Lord Grump’s jaw said otherwise.
Supper conversation turned to other topics, and Anne breathed a sigh of relief when it was over and the ladies retired to the parlor, leaving the men—and most importantly Viscount Moody-Manning—behind.
Colin had excused himself after supper. In an effort to avoid gathering with the ladies later, he claimed exhaustion. And although it wasn’t a lie, he had another fitful night’s sleep. Visions of Margery wasting away while he stood helplessly by haunted his dreams, and he woke in a cold sweat.
He had failed his wife. Irrational thought? Yes, but he couldn’t shake the heavy weight of responsibility he carried ever since Margery had become ill. They had visited her family during her sister’s illness, and Margery had insisted on remaining by Penelope’s bedside until her death.
Two weeks later, the coughing began.
He should have done something. Said something. Insisted.
He rose from the bed and splashed cold water on his face.
Outside, the sun rose over a rolling hill and provided a gentle wake-up call to the estate.
Birds tweeted their incessant cheerful songs, and a light breeze blew in from his window, bringing with it the sweet fragrance of a freshly scythed lawn.
None of it matched his mood.
After a sharp rap, his door opened, and his valet, Fitz, entered. “Good morning, sir. How are we feeling this beautiful day?”
Damn the man’s infernal cheery disposition. Colin grunted his reply.
“Grumpy this morning, I see.”
Colin jerked his head toward the man. The image of a particular petite woman with red hair rose in his mind. “Why does everyone insist on using that descriptor? I am not grumpy.”
Fitz’s lips pressed in a thin line, the tell-tale dimple in his left cheek making a brief appearance. “As you say, sir. And what are our plans today?”
“My plans are to go riding after breakfast with Lady Miranda Townsend.”
In the process of going through Colin’s clothes, Fitz halted, standing stark-still for a few seconds before turning and staring wide-eyed. “Indeed? Well then, we shall have to make sure you look your absolute best.”
Colin grunted again.
Forty minutes later, Fitz stood back and assessed his handiwork, giving a nod. “You cut a most dashing figure, my lord. I’m sure the young lady will be impressed.”
Unwilling to give Fitz more ammunition, Colin refused to dignify the man’s comment with an answer. “That will be all, Fitz.”
Pausing at the door, Fitz turned back. “And may I say, sir. It’s about time.”
Colin grunted again, causing Fitz to laugh.
When Colin entered the breakfast room, the tension in his shoulders eased upon seeing only Mr. Grey, Mr. and Mrs. Weatherby, Burwood, and Honoria. The red-headed menace wasn’t present. Unfortunately, he’d see her soon enough when she and Mr. Grey joined them on their ride.
Determined to prove his valet wrong, he forced a smile as he walked to the sideboard. “Good morning.” He piled his plate with his favorite sausages along with some bacon and a boiled egg.
Honoria smiled over her teacup. “I remembered.”
He couldn’t contain the genuine smile. “How could you forget when I would steal the sausage from your plate and Nanny would slap my hand? I think you took great pleasure in seeing me punished.”
Honoria laughed. “I would never delight in your punishment. And if I recall, it only made you more intent on not being caught. You became quite adept at sleight of hand.”
Colin sat next to his sister, and she poured him some tea. His heart swelled to see her so happy. If anyone deserved love, it was Honoria.