Colonel Archer offered Isla his arm. She wrapped her fingers around his elbow, appreciating the leashed strength under her fingertips.
Isla could envision their future together. She would bear his children and host dinner parties and embroider handkerchiefs in her spare time. When in London, she would attend the theater and, when in the country, walk the paths around Malton Hill.
It was the life she craved. She only needed to disentangle herself from Tavish Balfour first.
They climbed the stairs, Lady Milmouth asking questions and clucking over the trials of a carriage journey. Like her son, there was an affable generosity to her ladyship, a sense of sincerity and wide-eyed delight with the world. As if her ladyship simply couldn’t fathom that terrible things might happen to those in her immediate orbit. Had Dr. Johnson included portraits to illustrate words in his dictionary, Isla supposed an etching of Lady Milmouth would appear beside the wordguileless.
It was yet one more mark in Colonel Archer’s favor—a mother that Isla would happily call her own.
They crossed into the front entry hall with its white marble floor, three symmetrically-placed pedimented doorways, and two parallel fireplaces on the left and right walls. The butler hurried forward to take Isla’s pelisse and bonnet, as well as Gray’s coat and top hat.
“Let me show you to your rooms,” Lady Milmouth said with a motherly tilt of her head. “You must be exhausted after your long journey.”
A loud burst of laughter—both feminine and masculine—carriedthrough one of the pedimented doorways. Acrowdof laughter, to be precise.
Isla paused, glancing at Gray. Wasn’t this to be a stay with just Lord and Lady Milmouth and their second son? A week of Isla and Colonel Archer deepening their relationship, while Gray tromped through fields, shot his fill of pheasant and grouse, and solidified his political alliance with Lord Milmouth.
Gray looked to their hostess with a slight frown.
“Ah, yes, our other guests.” Lady Milmouth cleared her throat.
“There are others besides ourselves?” Gray lifted his eyebrows.
It was a rather intimidating lift, as Isla well knew.
Lady Milmouth was not immune. She flushed, hands clasped at her waist.
“Yes.” She gave a fluttery laugh. “You see, my sister, Lady Forsyth and her husband, Sir John Forsyth—of the Southampton Forsyths, not the Suffolk—were longing for a stay in the country, and I simply couldn’t bear to disappoint them. They have come with their two daughters and have brought the daughter of another dear friend.”
“Emmeline loves nothing more than to have a house full of people,” Lord Milmouth said on a fond laugh. “Why return to London when we can ask half of London to join us here?”
“It is true. I do adore hosting a merry house party,” Lady Milmouth sighed, flitting a tentative glance at Gray.
“Emmeline assures me that the other guests shan’t get in the way of our discussions, Grayburn,” Lord Milmouth added.
“Not too much, at least. But I know that single gentlemen always appreciate the company of well-bred young ladies.” Lady Milmouth smiled brightly at Gray.
A bit too brightly, per Isla’s intuition.
Ah.
Of course.
What self-respecting matron could permit a handsome bachelor duke to idle away his days without attempting some match-making?
Enter three eligible young women—all with close ties to Lady Milmouth—who would now spend the week vying for Gray’s attention.After all, what mamma did not wish her daughter to marry the Duke of Grayburn?
The tight clench of Gray’s jaw indicated that he saw through the ploy.
Isla had to pinch her lips together to prevent a smile escaping.
Hah! She rather liked the idea of watching Gray squirm for a week.
Laughter sounded again from the next-door room.
“And the gentlemen?” Gray ground out.
“Oh, yes!” Lady Milmouth beamed. “Of course, I couldn’t leave our numbers unsettled. Edward was kind enough to invite a pair of fellow officers from his time in the army—his closest friends, actually—to ensure that each lady has a gentlemanly arm to escort her into dinner and such.”
