CHAPTER 8
“It’s hardly a wonder that you have yet to wed, Nephew, seeing as you are constantly propping up a wall and scowling at social events. Get out there, boy, and mingle. You need an heir.”
“Aunt Lavinia, how wonderful to see you. Are we to be blessed with your company in London long?” Patrick asked, bowing over the hand of the only member of his family, besides his sisters, he tolerated.
She was old and crotchety but had often come to visit when he was a child and read to them. These were small moments of joy that were rare for the children of Lord and Lady Coulter.
“Why are you scowling?” she demanded.
“I always scowl.” She wore a dress with a ridiculously high collar, unlike anything he’d seen other women wearing. Aunt Lavinia had always marched to her own drum in whatever she did. It was a bright shade of yellow—not a soft buttercup color, more jaundice.
“Would you like me to find you a wife?” Aunt Lavinia asked.
“Ah, no, that will not be necessary, thank you, Aunt. I am more than capable when the time comes to find my own wife.”
She squinted at him as if studying a small rodent that had scampered over her slippered foot. “Then hurry up. You’re not getting any younger, and your looks will fade.”
Aunt Lavinia never held back when she believed, rightly or wrongly, something needed to be said.
“As always, your wish is my command.” He bowed deeply. When he rose, she was stomping away to annoy someone else or bite the heads off a few insects.
Tonight was the Hadleigh ball, and he’d come because he wanted to see the countess. His eyes went back to her, where she was dancing with Stephen, stunning in deep blue with a shimmering overskirt.
He’d spent the two days since he’d found her and Timothy in that tea shop trying and failing to put her out of his head. He’d felt her fear when she’d looked to the window and seen those two men standing there. What he didn’t know was why.
He had so many questions about that woman, and every time he met her, another one formed.
Patrick watched as Stephen took the countess’s hand and turned before parting again. His friend had made several attempts to converse with her, and she had rebuffed each one with a polite smile, focusing her attention instead on her feet when she thought no one was looking.
He was looking and had been since she entered.
After yet another attempt, Stephen looked up at the ceiling as if seeking divine intervention. Patrick had observed her dancing many times now and noted her trepidation as the steps grew more difficult.
When the dance finished, Stephen walked her to Lady Carstairs and then returned to where Patrick stood.
“She didn’t seem that cold in the tea shop with her son and Doddy, Patrick. But tonight I tried several times to strike up conversation and failed.”
“It’s like you’re losing your edge,” Patrick taunted his friend. “Your charm is slipping.”
“Now we both know that is not the case. I am universally adored, unlike you.”
“Aunt Lavinia just told me your looks are fading,” Patrick said.
Stephen’s head snapped left and then right.
“She’s at present arguing with Lady Joiner. You are safe for now.”
“That woman is terrifying,” Stephen said.
To many, Viscount Sumner was a devil-may-care peer whose biggest concern was the color of his waistcoat. Patrick, however, knew him differently.
Stephen and his family had been the only light in an otherwise dark existence for Patrick. The days he escaped, it had been to ride to the Sumner estate thirty minutes away from his family home.
“I think your aunt pretends not to like me because the truth is that she does,” Stephen said.
“Of course, that’s it exactly,” Patrick drawled. “Or she just doesn’t like you because when compared to me, you fall short.”
“Oh please. You’re the dark earl with an inability to smile and flirt,” Stephen said. “No one could ever believe you are better than me.”
