Chapter Sixteen
As the carriage rolled to a stop, Westland gently tried to remove his arm from around Miss Mason’s shoulder.
The last hour had been torturous — her head resting on his chest, her hand lying a little too high on his thigh.
When her head had fallen onto his shoulder in sleep, he had thought to prop her gently in the opposite corner, but as he had moved, she had snuggled closer with a tiny murmur of contentment.
Not wishing to disturb her — from the blessedly silent slumber — for his own comfort more than hers, he had manoeuvred slightly, and the damn woman had burrowed closer like a sleepy kitten. And there she had stayed.
“Miss Mason,” he murmured softly, trying to extricate himself without startling her awake. “Miss Mason, we are arrived.”
“Mm,” she murmured, stretching sleepily and slowly uncurling. “So warm and comforting.”
“Hm,” he grunted as he finally freed himself and reached for the door, “I will arrange our accommodations.”
“Mm,” she sighed dreamily, giving him a smile so radiant that, momentarily, he forgot she was his doom. “Who would have thought you would be such a good cuddler?”
Snapping his face towards the door, he took a deep breath, rolled his eyes and silently prayed for Lady Mason’s swift arrival.
* * *
With lodgings secured and mother and daughter securely deposited in their respective rooms to freshen up, Westland sat before the fire in his own chamber and tugged loose his cravat.
“Sylvie bloody Mason,” he muttered, pouring a generous measure of whiskey.
The sharp, peaty aroma filled the air, and he inhaled deeply before taking a long, deliberate sip, savouring the fiery, aromatic liquid before allowing it to glide slowly down his throat and settle like fire in his belly.
He relished the burn. Anything to smother the unease in his chest.
The fire crackled and spat, sending sparks racing up the chimney.
He sat for some time staring into the flames, wrestling with his thoughts.
Finally, with a sharp, decisive nod, as though confirming an order to himself, he drained the remainder of the glass with no mind to its flavour.
Standing, he slammed the glass down on the fireplace mantle, readjusted his cravat, and smoothed down the front of his coat.
“Right then,” he muttered, and stalked from the room.
A maid slipped out of the small private parlour ahead of him, bobbing a quick curtsey before scurrying down the corridor toward the hum of activity from the common room.
Ducking under a low beam, he entered the snug, wood-panelled chamber he had arranged for their supper.
Several lamps cast a mellow golden glow across the space, and before he could so much as draw breath, Lady Mason was upon him — bright, smiling, unstoppable.
If he had expected supper to be a quiet, awkwardly polite affair, he was swiftly disabused of such a notion.
“You must find us very uncouth, my lord,” chuckled Lady Mason as she settled herself into one of the chairs at the table.
“Even Lord Mason has learnt to enjoy a good natter over supper. With four lively daughters and a silly wife, my poor husband never stood a chance of it any other way. As I say to him, you may command a regiment, dear husband, but you will never succeed in keeping your little flock of hens from clucking.”
“Mama,” Sylvie murmured in soft reproof, as her eyes met Westland’s with quiet apology. He inclined his head slightly, and she dropped her gaze, the faintest smile tugging at her lips.
Lady Mason waved a dismissive hand. “Nonsense, my dearest. Lord Westland will be amongst the fray soon enough. Be part of our little family. Better he knows what to expect at family suppers. Is that not right, my lord?”
“Indeed, Lady Mason,” he replied evenly as he took his seat.
For all appearances, Lady Mason was a sweet, likeable creature, but Westland did not miss the sharp glint of determination in her pale, watery blue eyes as she fixed him with a pleasant smile.
“Lord Mason will be delighted to have an ally at the table finally,” she continued happily as she set about the task of serving.
“The poor dear is so outnumbered and becomes quite exasperated with talk of the latest romance or scandal in ‘The Lady Chronicles’. Of course, you will dine with us upon our return, will you not, Lord Westland? Just a simple family supper, nothing formal.”
Her tone still light and jolly, she deftly transferred a succulent piece of roast meat to his plate with a warm smile. “I understand you are rather partial to lamb… and I expect you will be calling on Lord Mason upon your arrival in London.”
“Of course,” he murmured too quickly, and no sooner were the words passed his lips, he realised he walked straight into her trap and stifled a shudder at the horrifying thought of a Family Supper.
“Oh, splendid,” cried Lady Mason. “Lamb it is then, and it just so happens to be a family favourite. The girls will be thrilled to make your acquaintance… and it will give us an opportunity to discuss the wedding arrangements. Lord Mason will insist on a grand affair, I am sure of it.”
The pace of her conversation — as rapid as a hail storm and as impossible to dodge — was not hindered, in any way, by the task of eating and drinking.
She chatted happily on all manner of topics, none of which held any particular interest for him, though he managed to contribute with the occasional, “indeed,” “is that so,” and “so I believe.”
Sylvie, far more subdued than earlier in the day, left the majority of the conversation to her mama.
Yet, when the pudding arrived, she clapped her hands with sudden delight and openly beamed across at him.
“Oh, my lord, how wonderful,” she laughed joyfully, her eyes bright in the lamplight. “Apple pie and custard!”
He simply inclined his head in response, yet his gaze lingered, and as Lady Mason poured the custard, Sylvie mouthed a silent thank you, and he found himself returning her smile before he caught himself and looked away.
When at last the meal drew to a close, Lady Mason relaxed back in her chair with a satisfied sigh. “Well, Sylvie dearest, it has been a long and wonderful day, but we must not keep his lordship from his rest. If you please, my lord, we shall take our leave till morning.”
Sylvie stood, offering Westland a shy, drowsy smile that hit him square in the chest for reasons he refused to examine.
He rose swiftly, smoothing his coat. “Of course, I shall bid you goodnight and farewell until we meet again in London. I shall be riding at first light on urgent business, though I will leave my carriage at your disposal. I should not wish for you ladies to be cramped.”
Giving a sharp nod to indicate the conversation was at an end, he opened the door before any further discussion could be entered into. Yet, as he tried to usher them through, Lady Mason paused halfway and cocked her head. “So very urgent, my lord?”
“Verra,” his cultured tongue slipping into Scottish brogue as it tended to do when he was relaxed or, as now, vexed, as the thought of enduring another day within the close confines of Sylvie Mason was a frustration he could not tolerate. “Good night. Lady Mason. Miss Mason.”
He shut the door firmly behind them and exhaled in relief as the muffled hum of their voices receded down the corridor and silence settled in their wake.