“You don’t want to be vying for attention, though the season is especially well populated this year.” He shook his head. “But the quality is low, if you gather my meaning.”
The viscount arched a brow.
Samantha tipped her chin in an almost scolding manner, and then returned to her soup.
And Grace wondered if maybe Lord Sterling was placing her in that same group of low-quality debutants—whatever that meant. It most certainly wasn’t a compliment.
“Herford is a good choice, and so is Drummel. Old, established titles and an appearance will be respectable, and they are sure to be well attended,” Lord Sterling finished, his expression satisfied.
The viscount clapped his hands once. “Then we shall start there. Thank you for your insight, it’s quite valuable.”
“I’m happy to assist.” Lord Sterling gave a dismissive gesture.
The conversation lulled slightly, and Grace turned to Samantha, curious if this was a time for her to introduce a topic, or if she should wait. Blast, she could never quite remember when it was polite to speak and when she should keep her mouth shut.
It was a struggle, that.
Samantha gave her an encouraging smile.
Grace took a deep breath.
“When is Heightfield to arrive?” Lord Sterling asked a moment before Grace was about to speak.
She nearly choked on her words in an effort to stop them before she interrupted.
The footman removed the soup and soon brought another course, all the while the viscount answered Lord Sterling’s inquiry.
“In the next month, or so he has said. I wouldn’t be surprised if he arrived earlier.”
“I’m quite surprised that he’s stayed away as long as he has,” Lord Sterling answered.
“He’s quite . . . preoccupied.” The viscount gave a sly glance to his wife, who blushed.
Grace turned her attention to the plate before her, slicing up a bite of potato.
“Ah yes, I’d imagine so,” Lord Sterling replied.
At the next pause in conversation, Grace was ready to practice her table conversation skills. She breathed in, glanced to the side to make sure that Lord Sterling’s body language didn’t imply that he was about to speak, then, assured of her success, she spoke. “It was quite the rainstorm today,” she stated.
Then she realized it wasn’t a question, rather a very polite, very neutral, very unremarkable statement. She hastened to fix her error. “It reminded me of thunder. Is it quite common for it to rain in such a fashion?”
There, much better! She was pleased with her first attempt outside of the protective walls of Kilmarin in Scotland.
She turned to Samantha, and returned her warm, approving smile. The weather was always a safe topic, was it not?
The viscount nodded. “It rains like that more often than I’d like, but at least it usually doesn’t last long.”
“Were you ever in the monsoon season in India, Miss Grace?” Lord Sterling turned to her, his blue eyes alight with inquiry.
A smile bent her lips. “Why yes, I was. It’s much different than rain here, at least in my very short experience of being in London. In Bangladesh, the monsoons sweep through slowly so that the rain seems as if it will never end, like a continuous circle of clouds that just repeats over and over. The air is so thick you feel as though you’re not breathing it, but drinking it. The worst part is never being fully dry. If you’re not wet from the rain, the humidity is enough to keep you damp.” Grace grinned widely, the memories flooding her. In her mind’s eye she could smell the fragrance of the rain on the parched earth, the sound of the first raindrops that signaled the need to take shelter, and the roar of the downpour when it finally hit.
“And did you enjoy it?” Lord Sterling asked.
She thought about it, then shook her head. “I hated it.” She gave a soft laugh. “I’d far rather the desert than the rain.”
“Ah, that will never do. We English are proud of our weather, as dreary as it is,” Lord Sterling replied.
“It’s good to be proud of one’s home,” Grace agreed. “But just because you find pride in something, doesn’t mean it’s the best option.”
