* * *
“Was that the vulgar industrialist?One of the duchess’ friends’ fathers?” Millie, Loretta’s maid for the past twenty years, scowled out the window as she watched Mr. Findlay’s disappearing figure. “He needs to learn his place, I’d say.”
Loretta breathed a sigh of relief at the closing of the door. Whether she felt it from closing the storm out, or the disturbing man, she couldn’t say.
And yes, a part of her agreed with her maid’s assessment.
But that didn’t mean she would tolerate the observation. She could not allow Millie to disparage Sophia’s guests. “He is a guest at Eden’s Court, Millie. And I’ll thank you not to refer to one of her grace’s guests as vulgar.”
Loretta handed her wrap over and began removing her gloves. A seam was coming unraveled on the left one. Normally, she’d have replaced them by now, but it hadn’t mattered. Had Mr. Findlay noticed? Mildred clucked her tongue with a pout as Loretta handed over the gloves.
“As you wish, your grace.” But her words carried no conviction. Millie could be loyal to a fault.
“And would you mind mending the left one?” Loretta indicated the opened seem.
“Of course. A spot of tea before supper?”
Loretta nodded. Something without spirits.
During the first few months of mourning, she’d found herself drinking more than her fair share of brandy in order to sleep. She’d even taken laudanum on a few occasions.
She’d buried her grief in lethargy. Too much. The compulsion to overindulge had frightened her. She no longer drank any spirits at all.
Just tea.
Hot tea.
“Let’s get you warmed up.”
Loretta nodded and again wondered if Mr. Findlay had noticed the tear in her gloves. Prescott would have berated her for it. He’d always demanded perfection from those in his protection.
Lucas, her eldest, had managed the pressure in stride. He’d hardened, similar to his father.
Harold, on the other hand. Sweet, dear Harold hadn’t done as well.
She refused to dwell on him tonight.
Beautiful Baby
The next afternoon, Thomas watched the doorway over the top of his glass as she entered. The austere style of her upswept hair emphasized her nobility but also drew attention to her slim, feminine neck and shoulders. She wore black, yet again, today. He couldn’t recall ever seeing her in any other color. A simple round collar with long sleeves, the frock ought to wash out her complexion, it ought to look atrocious. But on her…
Thomas shook his head.
Although several guests had already come down to the salon, the duchess had arrived late. The younger duchess, dressed in a pale pink concoction, greeted the older woman and led her toward a high-backed upholstered chair with all due respect. Thomas chuckled to himself at the duchess’ irritation. With a regal nod, she excused the younger woman to attend to her other guests.
Likely she’d done the same numerous times during her own reign as Duchess of Prescott.
The young duchess sent a grimace toward her husband, who then raised his shoulders in a casual shrug. They obviously found themselves at something of a loss as to how to deal with the widow.
She’d belonged here all her life, and yet now, somehow, she didn’t. Or she didn’t think she did.
What a horrid lot women had! Even duchesses lacked the independence of a hardworking man.
“The widow,” a voice sounded near his ear, “no longer takes spirits.” Mrs. Goodnight, one of Cecily’s friends’ mothers had crept up behind him.
He resented that she’d caught him watching the duchess. He resented even more the gleeful spite he heard in Mrs. Goodnight’s voice.
“I’ve witnessed many a strong man taken down by spirits.” He spoke non-committally,
