“Your Grace,” the voice insisted, closer now, “surely you will not pretend you did not hear me.”
James stopped because refusing to acknowledge a persistent nuisance in public only turned it into entertainment.
He turned.
A carriage had drawn to the curb in a showy sort of way, as though it believed itself important enough to halt traffic. The woman descending from it wore sable at her throat and diamonds at her ears, and she held herself with that peculiar confidence women gained when they had survived enough Seasons to believe themselves untouchable.
Lady Whitcombe. The Dowager Countess of Whitcombe.
James had not seen her in years. He would have been content never to see her again.
“Lady Whitcombe,” he said, tone neutral.
She gave a shallow curtsy, one that acknowledged his rank without conceding much humility. “It has been far too long.”
“Indeed.”
Her lips tightened. “I see grief has not improved your manners.”
James’s gaze swept past her to the driver still holding the reins, to the footman hovering behind her with the anxious look of a man who knew he was about to witness something unpleasant. Then he returned his attention to her with deliberate calm.
“My manners are precisely what they have always been,” he said. “You have simply forgotten what it is to be spoken to without flattery.”
Lady Whitcombe’s eyes flashed. “How very much like your father.”
James’s expression did not change, though something sharp moved in his chest.
“My mother,” he said evenly, “was a woman of restraint.”
Lady Whitcombe smiled faintly, as if he had made her point for her. “She was my friend.”
“So you have claimed,” James replied.
Her chin lifted. “I do not claim it. It is fact.”
“And yet,” James said, “friendship does not extend by inheritance.”
The smile slid from her face.
“You are walking,” Lady Whitcombe remarked, as if that itself were scandalous. “Does the Duke of Langford no longer own carriages?”
“I am capable of putting one foot in front of the other. As, apparently, are you.”
She made a small, dismissive sound. “Capable, yes. But why would you? You are drawing attention.”
James looked past her again, taking in the street. Heads had turned. A pair of young ladies on the opposite side pretended not to stare while their mama stared openly. Two gentlemen paused near a shop window, interest brightening their faces as if they had been gifted a free performance.
Attention, James thought,was inevitable.
“I do not mind attention,” he said.
“Ah,” Lady Whitcombe murmured. “Perhaps that is why you have chosen to marry so suddenly. A new tactic.”
James’s gaze sharpened. “Say what you mean.”
Her eyes gleamed with satisfaction. “Thetonis buzzing, Your Grace. One cannot take tea without hearing it repeated. You have a betrothed. You have selected a bride. And yet–” she paused delicately, “–I do not recall seeing you court Miss Barker at all this Season… or last…”
James did not answer.
