“Very well,” Lord Berkeley said. “Though, Miss Faraday, I would suggest a parasol, if you have one. The sun is quite bright today.”
She met his eyes and saw a double meaning there. Yes. An opportunity to put the letter in her room. Though she’d begun harboring a hope that she might read it on their outing, if others were with them, that wouldn’t be possible.
“Thank you, I shall retrieve one.” She began to back from the room.
“Have your maid get it,” her guardian called.
“It is no matter,” she called back, already leaving the room. “I will be but a moment.”
She took the stairs two at a time, then, breathing heavily, she entered her room and swept it for a possible hiding place. She decided on her traveling trunk at the foot of the bed. Between two unused garments she wedged the papers, staring at them for a long moment before heading back the way she’d come.
She’d forgotten the parasol, but thankfully, Lord Tarrington had not left the drawing room, and Lord Berkeley now awaited her in the entry. He extended his elbow as she reached the foot of the stairs.
She took it. Butterflies surged at the contact. She gave them a stern, internal talking-to.
They did not listen.
He led her to a carriage waiting outside, assisting her in.
“Miss Faraday,” Lord Berkeley said as she took her seat, “this is Lord James Bowcott and Lady Katherine Bowcott. They are close friends of mine and will be joining us this afternoon.”
Nervous energy remained from the interchange within the home and the knowledge of the letter concealed in her room, but she shook it aside, accepting the change in plans as quickly as she could manage. She dipped her head to both the Bowcotts in turn. “It is a pleasure to meet you.”
“Likewise,” Lady Bowcott said. She appeared close to Lydia in years, her hair a midnight black and her dress of the utmost quality. She was the sort of woman that would make those besideher feel dowdy by comparison, even though Jones had chosen one of Lydia’s finest day dresses for the outing. But something in the lady’s expression set her at ease instead.
When Lord Berkeley settled beside her, Lydia forgot all social graces as she scooted awkwardly to the side to avoid imposing on his space. Also to avoid touching him. Having her hand on his arm had been trouble enough; she didn’t need to be pressed to his side.
Heavens, but this carriage was growing hot.
It jolted forward then, and Lydia nearly fell into the space between the seats. A large hand braced her shoulder. Before she even had a chance to thank Lord Berkeley, he had helped her upright again and removed his hand. By the time she looked at him, he was beginning a conversation with Lord Bowcott.
“How is little Lady Katherine?”
“Loud,” Lord Bowcott returned, but his smile was indulgent.
Lady Bowcott met Lydia’s eye. “Our daughter,” she said in explanation.
Ah. “How old is she?” Lydia asked.
“Not yet six months.” Lady Bowcott’s mouth was turned up in a smile much like her husband’s. She turned to Lord Berkeley. “Your mother visited this past week.”
“I am unsurprised. The two of you would be draw enough, but your daughter eclipses you both.”
Lord Bowcott laughed. “Lady Cheltenham indicated she may have to claim our Katherine as her granddaughter if her sons do not—How was it she phrased it?—come up to scratch?”
Lord Berkeley coughed.
Lady Bowcott shushed her husband. “I do not believe this is the best time for the conversation.” Her head tilted marginally in Lydia’s direction, and Lydia felt a pang of discomfort. In addition to her already established concerns regarding thisouting, she was an outsider here, encroaching on time spent together as friends.
But then Lady Bowcott turned to Lydia, fully including her in the conversation. “Have you been to London before, Miss Faraday?” Her smile was kind, and her expression indicated she was truly interested in the answer.
Lydia shook her head. “No, this is my first Season.” She said no more, thinking of Lord Tarrington’s command to keep her past to herself. Though, come to think of it, being open about how she was an orphan with no family may accomplish exactly what she needed to put off Lord Berkeley.
Yet when given the perfect opportunity, she was unable to open her mouth again before Lady Bowcott asked another question.
“Do you have any siblings?”
“No.” But it was not Lydia who offered that information; it was Lord Berkeley. Her brows rose, and he glanced her way. But his face was a mask, and she could make nothing out in his expression. That was frustrating—especially when she’d thought she was coming to know him.
