Miss Danby exchanged a glance with her sister, as if looking for assistance. Lyman rose to his feet before she could find it. “It was a pleasure to see you again, Miss Annabelle. Thank you for having me, Miss Danby. It would perhaps be helpful if you could prepare something for us to look over next week. An outline, or a first chapter, to keep our work focused.”
He bowed, donned his hat, and turned his back on Miss Danby and everything she represented.
***
“Well, that went poorly,” Annabelle said, the moment Lord Ashton had gone.
Della would have liked to argue, but it would be pointless. Ithadgone poorly.
“The worst part is, Idohave an outline we could have looked at, if he’d asked me first instead of assuming I’d done nothing and rushing off.” Maybe she should have led with that. It was just that she grew so flustered under his scrutiny that she forgot what she’d planned. The viscount seemed determined to think the worst of her without giving her a chance to explain. But then, he was hardly unique in that respect. Even her own brother didn’t believe she could write a book. No one took her seriously. “Do you think it was rude of me to ask what club he belonged to? That’s not a personal question, is it?”
He’d been almost civil for a moment, until she’d asked about that.
“I think you’ve met someone who’s immune to your charms, and you don’t know what to do with him,” Annabelle replied, quite amused.
“That’s horrid. I’m not trying to win over Lord Ashton, nor do I charm every man I meet.”
“You don’t have to. They find you charming all on their own.” Annabelle closed her book without marking the page. She probably hadn’t read a word the whole time, the little busybody. “But not this one. So how do you intend to make him fall in love with you?”
“He’s married.” Only a second after this pronouncement, Della paused to revisit the memory of their first meeting. “At least, I think he is.”
“You don’t know?” Annabelle wrinkled her nose. “Didn’t it occur to you that it might be a good idea to clarify whether or not the gentleman you agreed to meet with every week is married already?”
“He said he had a wife. But he also said that they hadn’t spoken in years and that no one should ever wed, so I’m not sure if it was supposed to be an attempt at dark humor.”
“Why would that be a joke?”
“I don’t know. You had to be there. It was all very strange.” Della perused her memories of the two meetings that had preceded this morning’s catastrophe, searching for some clue that might tell her where she’d gone so wrong. “I’m not sure if he’d explain himself even if I asked. He seems terribly private. His card didn’t even have his own address on it! Isn’t that odd?”
She’d known gentlemen to put their club’s address on their card before, but that was always someone down on his luck, who didn’t want his friends knowing he couldn’t afford a town house in the West End. If the Viscount Ashton wanted to hide his residence, she could only conclude he must be too snobbish to want the riffraff knowing where he lived.
“Shall we consult Debrett’s?” Without waiting for her answer, Anabelle rose and left the room.
“Oh, let’s not.” Della scurried after her, down the hall to the library. “It doesn’t signify anything.”
It wasn’t as though she was hoping Lord Ashton was eligible. He was standoffish and arrogant and frequently rude.
No matter that she still found those spectacles adorable; that was just a personal weakness of hers.
Annabelle had already cracked the tome open and was flipping through pages by the time Della entered the room. “Ashton, Ashton… Ah, here we are. Oh look, he’s got a stag on his coat of arms. How dashing. Married 1830. Lady Mary Ellen de Villiers, second daughter of the ninth Earl of Eastmeath.” She looked up to favor her sister with a smug expression. “Looks like he wasn’t joking then.”
“If he is married, they can’t be very fond of each other,” she reasoned aloud. After all, couples didn’t live separately for years if there was any affection left. “He’s not really bound by it in the same way as if his wife were under the same roof.”
“Not bound by it how?” The judgment in Annabelle’s tone intensified. “Do you mean, would it still be bigamy if he married you? Becauseyes, it would.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Della scoffed. “Who said anything about marriage? You know I’m not in any rush to settle down.”
Having a fortune to her name already and more than enough to keep her days occupied, Della was in no hurry to wed. When her time came, she would no doubt be swept off her feet by a true romantic. A poet, perhaps. Or a diplomat with a seductive accent who would show her the continent in style. She’d always wanted to travel the world.
In short, she was saving marriage for a passionate soul like herself, which Viscount Ashton certainly was not.
A kiss, though.
She might like to kiss him, though she knew she shouldn’t. He’d done nothing at all to make himself agreeable to her. He and his friend Mr. Armstrong behaved as though he was doing her an enormous favor by deigning to visit her home, when he hadn’t even lasted ten minutes before storming back out. He was probably sitting in a town house the size of a small palace right now, judging her. Aristocrats were so insufferably superior.
Maybe that was why Della thought about kissing him. It would represent a victory; an admission that he’d been wrong to doubt her, and that she was worthy of his notice.
Oh dear. Annabelle might be right about my needing everyone to like me.
