Nora blinked in confusion. “You wanted Lady Pettibone to go away?”
“Both of them.” The baroness fluttered her eyes skyward. “You cannot imagine how tiresome it is to be constantly judged by those who outrank you.”
“That… must be dreadful for you,” Nora managed to choke out as she forced her still-shaking hands to relax.
“You have no idea.” Lady Roundtree lowered her voice. “Did you know they call her the ‘old dragon?’”
Nora did know.
Her patroness had informed her of this and every other aristocrat’s nickname countless times, along with allegedly verbatim stories about how each reputation had come to be earned. The baroness’s enthusiastically repeated tales were the source material for almost all of Nora’s caricatures.
“Oh?” she said aloud, as if the moniker was surprising news.
If her patroness did not recall her many mindless confessions to a companion, Nora saw no need to draw attention to the matter.
“Even my husband says she’s a tyrant.” Lady Roundtree pursed her lips. “And my husband…”
Would know, Nora finished silently. The baron did not possess a warm nature.
It was fortunate that Nora had been employed to provide the baroness much-needed companionship, for Lord Roundtree certainly could not be bothered to do so.
Attending to his vast wealth not only made him richer, but the baron also became ever more distant and irritable with his wife. This served to increase the baroness’s propensity to fly into a panic or spend unbroken hours prattling to Nora about aristocratic peccadillos in an obvious attempt to fill the silent, cavernous rooms of her home with something besides loneliness.
Nora didn’t mind that accepting this temporary post had reduced her already-lowly status from poor relation to paid servant. Although she had never longed to define herself by some tenuous family connection to Someone Important, she was glad she could provide comfort to her cousin. Even if they never saw each other again after Lady Roundtree’s broken leg finally healed.
With this post, the baroness had given Nora an advantage that would serve her the rest of her life. Not a letter of recommendation to future employers. Not just the money sent home to her grandparents. But the surprising realization that greenhorn, country-born Nora wasn’t missing anything after all. This life was not for her.
The same pinch-nosed countess would have made the same belittling comments if Nora had been the baroness’s daughter rather than her distant cousin.
Horse hooves clopped up to the carriage, followed by a concerned male voice. “I’m sorry it took so long to reach you. I thought I heard a scream. Is something amiss?”
Mr. Grenville.
Already his low, rich voice was imprinted on her soul.
Nora gazed up at him, speechless.
He was even handsomer than the last time she’d seen him. Chestnut hair, adorable tousled. Snowy white cravat against a dark blue waistcoat and dove gray jacket. He was Prince Charming astride a royal steed.
And he wasn’t here for her.
His hazel eyes were focused on the baroness.
“No, nothing at all.” Lady Roundtree flapped a hand in apology for her earlier shriek. “Lady Pettibone’s companion is simply excitable. We didn’t mean to bother anyone.”
“A lady as charming and elegant as yourself could never be a bother,” Mr. Grenville said with a wink. He turned his easy smile toward Nora. “You look lovely as well, Miss Winfield. Seeing the two of you has already made this afternoon’s promenade worthwhile.”
Lady Roundtree giggled girlishly. “Stuff and nonsense. Every promenade must be a treat for you. Once you inherit the barony, you’ll have little time for such idleness.”
Something dark flashed across Mr. Grenville’s hazel eyes and just as quickly vanished.
Nora’s heart thumped. What had he been thinking just then?
“I am certain I can break the mold,” Mr. Grenville protested with good humor. “Look about at all the titled gentlemen present. The dukes and earls outrank us, and they appear to have a surfeit of time to devote to their pleasures, do they not?”
Perhaps that waswhy, Nora thought but did not say aloud. Bigger titles tended to correspond with bigger fortunes—vast estates and troves of gold passed down from generation to generation. They must have dozens of barristers, bankers, and paid managers to attend to every detail.
Because baroncies were the least powerful of all the ranks, perhaps their owners were required to devote disproportionately more time to maintaining both wealth and appearances, lest their title become societally and financially worthless. It would be awful.
