Victor paused at the threshold.
Dorothea sat on a settee upholstered in blue damask, her posture elegant, her expression animated. Beside her sat a young woman in a lavender gown, her hands folded with careful modesty, her hair arranged in soft curls that framed a round, hopeful face.
“Victor, darling,” Dorothea greeted, rising slightly. “You have finally decided to join the living.”
He inclined his head. “Good morning, Mother.”
“And a good morning, indeed,” she said, with a glance at the young woman that revealed more intention than greeting. “May I present Miss Harriet Parsons. Her mother and I were acquainted in our younger days, and the family is in town for the Season. Miss Parsons has expressed great admiration for Greystone House.”
Harriet colored prettily. “Your Grace, it is an honor.”
Victor bowed. “Miss Parsons.”
Dorothea gestured toward the empty seat near her own. “Do sit, Victor. We were just discussing the charity ball Lady Ranleigh will be hosting next week. I thought it a fine opportunity for you to attend, since you have so dreadfully avoided your duties to Society of late.”
He knew that tone. Sweet as honey, sharp as a blade.
He sat down, because refusing would lead to an argument he had no interest in starting.
Harriet smiled, shy and eager. “Her Grace speaks very highly of you, Your Grace. She says you have the most admirable sense of duty.”
Victor felt the faint stir of impatience. “My sense of duty is directed toward my estates and tenants. Society receives the remnants.”
Dorothea laughed lightly. “Nonsense. A man can manage both. Or at least pretend to with enough polish.”
Harriet gave a nervous giggle.
Dorothea leaned forward with the deliberate grace of a general positioning her troops. “Miss Parsons plays the pianoforte beautifully and has a talent for embroidery. Her mother tellsme she is fond of animals as well. A gentle disposition. A lovely temperament.”
Victor saw the shape of the battle then.
His mother had not chosen this morning’s tea by chance. She had been waiting for an opportunity. And now she pressed it like a hand against a bruise.
“Miss Parsons,” she continued without breath, “has been presented at Court and has already been asked to dance at several assemblies, though she prefers quiet evenings. She is also quite accomplished at watercolors. You adore watercolors, do you not, Victor?”
“I tolerate them,” he replied.
Harriet bit her lip. “I enjoy landscapes most. They soothe me.”
Victor felt sympathy for her innocence. She was earnest. Soft. Easily managed. She deserved a man gentle in manner, not himself.
Dorothea placed her hand atop Harriet’s in a gesture that was almost tender. “You see, my dear, Victor is shy in company. It is not disinterest. He was raised rather sternly, and any creature with warmth unsettles him.”
“Mother.” His voice cooled an inch.
Dorothea pressed on. “I only mean he would do very well with a kind wife. Someone gentle who can soften his sharp edges.”
Harriet looked uncertain now. “I would be honored to make any man comfortable, Your Grace.”
Victor stood up. “Miss Parsons, you are gracious. My mother’s compliments exceed my character. I fear I am not the gentleman she believes I am.”
Dorothea’s smile tightened. “Victor, do not be rude. Miss Parsons has been kind enough to call. At my invitation.”
“That, Mother, is exactly the difficulty.”
Harriet’s eyes widened, hurt flickering like a candle starved for oxygen.
Victor bowed again, not unkindly. “Miss Parsons. I am pleased to have made your acquaintance. There are matters that need my attention. Forgive me.”
