Lady Gwyneth nodded, but her eyes remained unconvinced. “I loathe it when Stoke speaks to him that way,” she said. “It eats at Stoke that Bran is the best of men. It always has.”
As Artemis swallowed against a suddenly tight throat, the edge of her eye noted a figure entering the room. Lady Gwyneth’s gaze shifted to take in the new arrival. A shocked gasp issued from her rosebud mouth, followed by a hurried arranging of her skirts. Brow furrowed, Artemis’s gaze cut left, and the breath stopped in her lungs.
She blinked.
But, no, her eyes weren’t deceiving her.
Mother had entered the drawing room.
Like that, the atmosphere transformed from one of ease and comfort into one of alertness and activity. Duchesses had that effect on a room—especially this duchess.
“Ah, Artemis,” said Mother, as she pointed herself in their direction. Somehow, the way she moved was both elegant and commanding. Mother yet held the power to transfix.
As Artemis came to her feet, she spared a glance for Lady Gwyneth, who looked no small bit awed. “You should stand to greet the duchess,” she said in a low voice that wouldn’t carry. It wasn’t a rule of thetonthat one must stand to greet a duchess, but this interaction would go so much more smoothly if Lady Gwyneth stood to greet Mother.
Lady Gwyneth rose with all the grace and assuredness of a newborn filly.
“Mother,” said Artemis, once Mother had come within decorous speaking distance, “Rake’s house party wasn’t on your calendar.”
Mother gave a near imperceptible shrug. “I decided to come anyway. I can toss caution to the wind as well as anyone.”
Artemis elected to keep her own counsel regarding that last point.
Mother shifted her attention toward Lady Gwyneth. “And who are you, my dear?”
Lady Gwyneth opened her mouth, but words refused to issue forth.
Artemis understood. Mother could be a lot. “Mother,” she said, “may I introduce Lady Gwyneth Mallory to you?”
Mother’s eyes narrowed with the most minimal amount of crinkling. “Mallory?”
Artemis had been prepared for that response. “Her brother is the Earl of Stoke.”
“And her other brother is …”
Sudden heat burst through Artemis. “Lord Branwell Mallory.”
Mother gave a nod, as if confirming a point to herself. “Shall we sit for tea?”
Misgiving began a slow creep through Artemis. Poor Lady Gwyneth. She looked fit to jump out of her skin.
Once the servants set a third place and her cup was poured, Mother again addressed Lady Gwyneth. “Society must have named you a diamond of the first water, no?” Her head tilted. “Yet I haven’t seen you about.”
“She’s not yet out.”
“You haven’t yet had a season?” Her gaze narrowed. “But you must be nineteen or twenty years old.”
Lady Gwyneth swallowed. “The plan is for me to debut this spring.”
Mother sipped her tea and studied the young lady before her for a good, long minute. Unable to help herself, Artemis reached for a square of shortbread. Nothing like a sweet to calm one’s nerves. Of course, Lady Gwyneth had no such recourse, frozen as she was in Mother’s unflinching sights.
At last, Mother spoke. “If you put your mind to it, Lady Gwyneth, you could have a duke.” She spoke the words as if shewere delivering the final word. “Write me in London, and I’ll fit you into my calendar one afternoon. We can strategize.”
Somehow, Lady Gwyneth found a reedy remnant of her voice. “That is most generous of you, Your Grace.”
Mother nodded, magnanimous.
Though Artemis hadn’t planned to be all that involved in this conversation, she thought a bit of gentle guidance could be useful. “Lady Gwyneth already has an understanding with a gentleman, Mother.”
