Chapter 3
Chapter Three
By the time the footmen began clearing the soup course the following evening, Richard profoundly regretted not taking a firmer hand with the seating.
Will’s Catherine, as hostess and Countess of Chadbourn, sat at the head of the table.
Sahin Pasha, the guest of honor, sat to her right and Richard to her left.
The countess commanded a remarkable range of knowledge.
Having glossed over politics and recently published books, she engaged Sahin in a comparison of the flora and fauna of the English countryside with his native land.
The bluff, avuncular man happily described flat farmlands and the rocky mountainous region of Cappadocia.
Their conversation progressed, as it ought. Richard’s problem lay with the two young ladies next in line, given their places at his mother’s request no doubt. The two had been after Richard like hounds on the scent all week.
Lady Jane Ashbourne sulked to Sahin’s right, spouting banal comments about primroses and expressing horror of a world without them. She came just short of insulting their guest.
Lady Sarah Wharton preened to Richard’s left.
She ignored everyone around her while she kept up a dogged effort to engage Richard in a conversation about the probable social events in the coming season.
Whenever he nodded politely, Lady Sarah took it as encouragement, and Lady Jane cast a sour frown in her direction.
From the far end of the table, holding court to the right of their host, his mother watched serenely, a satisfied smile firmly in place. He had no doubt who placed the two bloodhounds near him.
“But surely a landscape devoid of flowers must depress one!”
He looked across at Lady Jane—pretty enough, with good bloodlines, but utterly lacking in sense. As his hostess, she would cause an international incident within a year of marriage.
Lilias Thornton would know what to say. That thought came unbidden, as did the urge to look down the table at the woman herself who, lacking title or station, sat safely beyond the massive silver epergne that marked the middle of the table.
Lilias sparkled up at Walter Stewart and his ilk, junior diplomats all, obviously enjoying the conversation.
She would make one of them a good wife. The thought irritated him.
“I would prefer the beet root to the asparagus,” Lady Sarah declared, not quite keeping annoyance from her voice.
Stop staring and pay attention to the chit next to you!
“Of course.” He gestured to a footman. The footman brought the dish, and Richard did what manners demanded. A gentleman always offered the lady next to him her choice. He wondered briefly where his manners had scattered, glanced back at Lilias Thornton, and looked swiftly away.
He offered Lady Sarah her choice of fowl.
“The duckling, please,” she beamed.
This one had impeccable manners. If she found the presence of a Muslim at her table troublesome, she hid it well. Lady Sarah possessed a suitable dowry and background for the wife of a future duke. Their fathers were cronies when not locked in rivalry. Perhaps I ought to consider her.
Moments later his mind wandered again. He caught himself glaring at Walter Stewart, who leaned too close to Lilias. Raise your damned eyes above the woman’s décolletage, Stewart!
The next thing he heard came from Lady Sarah. “But your eminence, isn’t Greece part of your homeland also? All those islands?”
Richard held his breath. He did not want a discussion of political tension at dinner. That could wait until the men were alone.
Sahin smiled as a grandfather might at a simple child. “Greece lies under the protection of the Ottoman Emperor for sure, my lady. It is as you say, quite beautiful.”
Lady Jane wrinkled her nose. “How can it be Greece and Ottoman?” she asked.
Before Richard could respond, Sahin Pasha spoke. “How does your Scotland lie with in the United Kingdom?”
“My father calls the Scots barbarians in a wild land,” Lady Jane sniffed.
“Not so!” Lady Sarah objected. Catherine, Sahin Pasha, and Richard all looked at her. Lady Jane glared.
“My cousin has a manor near the borders,” Lady Sarah continued. “It is quite, quite beautiful. The company is cultured, even if the weather is not what one might like.”
Richard looked at Lady Sarah more closely. Yes, perhaps I should consider this one. It would at least relieve me of my mother’s machinations.
“Ah, but part of Greece’s attraction lies in its weather,” Sahin responded.
Richard let Catherine steer the conversation into the safer realms of temperature and thunderstorm. He glanced down the table again. This time he caught his mother’s frown. She glared at Lilias.
When Catherine finally rose, Richard sat back in relief. He watched the ladies troop out, forced his gaze away from Lilias Thornton, and caught a martial look on his mother’s face. Perhaps he should avoid joining the ladies altogether.
Lady Sarah Wharton took the place next to the Duchess of Sudbury on a brocade sofa. Lily watched with less detachment than she liked.
Other young ladies, including the sour-faced Lady Jane, clustered around, peeping like so many ducklings vying for place. Whatever else this house party intended, the competition for the Marquess of Glenaire waged fast and furiously. Yesterday that amused Lily.
Suddenly the entire marriage stakes wearied her. She longed to escape to her room. Petite, blond, and assured of her own worth, Lady Sarah represented everything Lily was not.
In three days at Chadbourn’s house party, the girl had emerged as the catch of the season, and she clearly had the duchess’s endorsement. Lily could have viewed her as competition, except Lady Sarah’s quarry lay far above Lily’s touch.
What would the little darling think if she knew her precious marquess had kissed me?
Memory of Glenaire’s mouth on hers vibrated through Lily’s body. She had been restless since she had let Volkov touch her intimately. Now the marquess set every nerve on edge.
She couldn’t deny that she found him attractive, but, even if fear of Volkov didn’t poison any attraction Glenaire held, the man himself would quash what pretense she might have made of seeking his attention.
“Yes, Sarah, do play for us,” the duchess pronounced. Everything that woman says sounds like a pronouncement, Lily thought. She watched Lady Sarah spring into action, watched the duchess’s beam of approval, and watched the others follow her with false smiles and calculating looks.
Enough! Lily rose to seek her hostess and take her leave, relieved to turn her back on the tableau by the pianoforte. She spied the Countess of Chadbourn at the far end of the room and stepped quickly in that direction.
“Miss Thornton! Do come sit,” the countess greeted her. “We were discussing A Modern Prometheus. Have you read it?”
“Frankenstein?” Lily asked, diverted. “No, actually. Is it quite the horror people say?” An older woman moved so she could sit by the countess.
“Oh quite!” Lady Chadbourn said, “But the delicious part is speculating on its anonymous author.”
“The preface is by that poet Percy Shelley,” one of the woman put in, “but it seems unlikely he wrote it.”
“I can see that he might prefer anonymity if he did,” another said.
Lily’s head spun. “An anonymous author could be a woman,” she said without thinking.
The countess beamed at her. “My point precisely!” She leaned over and lowered her voice in mock secrecy, “Perhaps even a lady of standing.”
“Should I be shocked?” Lily asked, eyebrows high, hiding her smile.
“Of course,” the countess lied to general laughter.
“You walked over here with purpose,” Lady Chadbourn continued more softly. “Don’t tell me you plan to leave us so early.”
The change in company tempted Lily to stay. She knew she ought to linger long enough to speak with Walter Stewart and continue her campaign to fix his attention. Tonight she couldn’t bear it, not with Glenaire nearby. Walter Stewart would keep for London.
Lily opened her mouth to plead headache when a rustle of skirts around the pianoforte alerted her to an open door.
“I fear I must,” she answered quickly. “We leave so early tomorrow, and I suspect a headache will keep me from sleep.” If she didn’t have one now, she would after an hour in the same room with Glenaire or Volkov, either one. She rose and accepted the countess’s sympathy.
Lily reached the midpoint of the enormous salon when she saw Glenaire’s tall frame fill the doorway and linger there.
A hunted look swept across his face; a mask of indifference quickly shuttered it.
Lily hesitated, pretending interest in a Dresden figure on the Adam mantelpiece in the center of the wall.
She waited for him to move away from the door.
The duchess marched toward her son with a swish of skirts, and he moved forward from the doorway. He looks resigned to the inevitable.
A crush of gentlemen entered behind Glenaire to seek their companions. Lily thought that if she stepped softly she could slip past the marquess and his mother and get to the door without being noticed. She paused her escape at the sound of her name.
“I saw you staring at that Thornton woman,” Lily heard the duchess hiss.
When she hesitated, one of the junior diplomats smiled at her hopefully and approached. He stood with his back to the duchess, blocking Lily from view. He began to complement her gown, a conversation that necessitated little beyond nods and blushes.
“I did not stare at Lilias Thornton,” the marquess replied to his mother under his breath.
Lily smiled up at her admirer, one ear cocked to the conversation behind him.
“‘Lilias,’” the duchess sneered. “Her very name has the reek of Scotland, as if that hair weren’t enough. She is nobody and has pretensions above her station.”
Lily’s smile wavered, but she kept her admirer talking. Eavesdropping seldom blessed the listener.
“Her father is a well-regarded diplomat,” the marquess responded. “Hardly ‘nobody,’ but you needn’t fear. Miss Thornton has the least hope of becoming Marchioness of Glenaire, much less Duchess of Sudbury, of any woman here,” he said.
Quite, Lilias thought. The very least hope. She made her excuses. One thought carried her up the stairs with unladylike speed. She needed to return to London, to begin her marriage quest anew, to regain her sanity.
She pushed open the door, determined to leave at first light. A folded paper just inside the room where it had been slipped under the door made her stop abruptly and grab it up.
She snapped the message open.
Perhaps we will meet in London. I will certainly see you. Be careful what you do and say, Darling Lily.
V
Lily fought back rising bile. Volkov. How can I pursue respectable marriage with Volkov lurking in corners?
She wished her papa home, she wished him safe, even as she knew wishes solved nothing.
Panic flooded Lily’s imagination with desperate ideas in torrents that eddied and flowed until one idea began to shape itself in her head.
Neither fear of reprisal nor thought of propriety shook it loose.
Prone on her bed, she thrashed about for another solution and found none.
Finally, weary, she rose and began to write.
Moments later she dribbled hot wax to seal the missive.
The Marble Marquess isn’t the only person who can be devious.