Page 28 of Inconvenient Honor
“You needn’t wait,” he added.
Richard ignored the curious eyes of clerks, ogling the sight of the Marble Marquess leaving early, and walked directly to the main stairs.
Lady Sarah will be pleased by a call.
He stepped out into the sun to wait for his coachman.
Too pleased,he thought.
Lily Thornton’s face continued to plague him. He couldn’t dismiss the thought that she looked pale when he saw her atPembrook’s—too pale.If she isn’t increasing, something else is wrong. Perhaps simply worry. She should be relieved.
He hopped up into his carriage.So should I.
A footman took hold of the door to close it. “Where to, my lord?” he asked. I should direct him to Grosvenor Square, to the Duke of Lisle’s townhouse.
“Gilbert Street,” Richard said instead.
“Just off Bloomsbury Square?”
Richard nodded. The man called the directions to the coachman. The door closed. The carriage lurched forward. In moments Richard sped toward Gilbert Street, home to intellectuals and the professional class—home to Lily Thornton.
Chapter Eleven
Teacakes made Lily queasy. So did biscuits, toast, Aunt Marianne’s pug, and the nosegays of lilacs and lily of the valley beautifully arranged on a marble-topped table near the window of Aunt Marianne’s first floor withdrawing room.
She sat erect, attempted to sip tea, and smiled wanly at her visitors. Both Walter Stewart and Roger Heaton sent posies and gratifying greetings the day after the ball. When they came to call, their stay lengthened perilously close to the limit of good manners for a morning call.
Utter nonsense naming afternoon visits a ‘morning’ call.
For a moment, that absurd thought symbolized all the weary idiocy of the so-called marriage mart. Another wave of nausea taunted Lily; the entire tedious effort might come to nothing.
One other visitor cheerfully munched cook’s lemon cakes and gave the appearance of contentment. She had met James Heyworth, newly elevated to Baron Ross, at Pembrook’s ball. He had arrived, danced one dance with her, and disappeared into the card room. Now, here he sat in her drawing room. He brought no posies. He puzzled her.
The man looked whip thin. Either he exercised heavily or ate irregularly. His uniform, nicely brushed but well worn, appeared almost shabby. He wore a suit at the ball. Does he even own another? A narrow black armband tied haphazardly to one arm paid tribute to the recent death of his father; he did not have the look of a grieving man. The only time his cheerful countenance faltered came whenWalter Stewart congratulated him on coming into his title. That soured him; the barony did not appear to be flush with funds.
“Are you in London for long, Baron Ross?”
He looked momentarily perplexed. “I hope to be,” he said at last.
How does one respond to that?
Stewart and Heaton eyed each other. Each, she suspected, hoped the other would leave first. Lily felt too weary to find that amusing.
“Was it difficult for you gentlemen to break free from your many duties?” she asked sweetly. She knew full well the Foreign Office did not necessarily keep business hours. She also knew young gentlemen who wished to get ahead worked long and hard.
Stewart looked uncomfortable, but Heaton smiled back. “For your company, Miss Thornton, one makes every sacrifice.”
Outrageous. Get back to work you fool man!
“Lily, look. Another admirer,” Aunt Marianne chirped from her chair in the corner.
Aunt Marianne’s old butler bowed into the room. “The Most Honorable the Marquess of Glenaire,” he intoned and bowed out.
Glenaire stood erect in the doorway, his blinding white neckcloth a marvel of engineering, the fine silk of his suit a remarkable expression of tailors’ art. Cool blue eyes under perfectly groomed white blond hair surveyed the room.
Lily didn’t rise; fear that a display of dizziness would make her look foolish pinned her to the chair. She fixated on the folds of carefully crafted French lace that draped from the marquess’s cuffs over long-fingered hands.
His brilliant, beautiful hands.
