“Besides, you know as well as I do how twisted rumors can become.” She pointed out. “Or have you forgotten the things that were said about Papa when we lived in Cornwall for a year? We had to pack up and leave when the talk got truly ugly.” Alex shook her head in dismay at the memory. “Imagine, the country folk getting in such a state, thinking he was a warlock because he collected esoteric plants and roamed the countryside at all hours of the day.”
Justin had the grace to color. He poked for a moment at the food left on his plate. “Nonetheless, the Icy Earl is a man to be avoided. Promise me that you will have no further conversation with him.”
Alex folded the newspaper and put it aside. “You have given me no rational reason to act in such a silly manner.” She allowed a small pause. “Besides, it would be extremely difficult to do so—unless you expect me to spend an entire day in silence … and that would be unconscionably rude, I might add, seeing as he has kindly offered to drive me to Kew Gardens to see the newly-arrived specimen plantings.”
Justin’s fist hit the dining table with a thud that rattled the china. “Aunt Aurelia!”
Lady Beckworth closed her book. “Are you two children having a quarrel?” she inquired, looking up over her spectacles.
Justin ran his hand through his hair. “Does no one in this family possess a grain of sense but me? Surely you cannot condone Alex’s association with a known rake and murderer?—”
Alex’s quelling look cut off any further words.
Lady Beckworth surveyed the agitated faces of her niece and nephew. “Justin, Alex is of an age to decide for herself what acquaintances she wishes to make. A ride in an open carriage with a gentleman’s tiger accompanying them is perfectly acceptable. And as Lord Branford is received by even the highest sticklers of Society, there is no stigma attached to being seen in public with him.”
She blew out a gusty sigh. “But Alex, your brother’s concerns are quite legitimate. You must admit that you have little experience with the working of Society here in Town. He is right to caution you to have a care. A reputation is not like a dress—once torn, it is almost impossible to mend.”
Both of them shifted uncomfortably in their chairs.
“And now, if you will excuse me, I am eager to finish a certain section of my translation before evening.” Lady Beckworth rose. “And please don’t forget we are promised to Lord and Lady Killington’s ball tonight.”
She gathered her things and left the breakfast room, leaving the two young people with much food for thought.
The event was an even greatercrush than the one of the previous evening. Lady Killington’s reputation as a splendid hostess ensured that her invitations were always accepted by those privileged enough to receive one.
As the guests began to fill the stately ballroom, the sonorous sounds of the violins and cellos floated through tastefully-appointed space. A myriad of candles blazed overhead, the fire-gold flames accentuated by the cut crystal chandeliers. The flickering light, dazzling in it brightness, winked off the shimmering silks and jewels of the well-dressed ladies, creating a gallimaufry of color. Masses of hothouse flowers added an air of sumptuous elegance, their subtle fragrance wafting through the soft trill of laughter and animated conversation.
Alex tugged at a flounce on her sleeve to mask her discomfort as she gazed at the opulent setting, wondering why she always felt so deucedly awkward at such evenings. How was it that other young ladies seemed to find it effortless to master the art of dazzling smiles and fluttering eyelashes.
She sighed. It was simply no use—she didn’t fit comfortably into any of Society’s expectations.
And why was she even asking herself such questions?
A frown furrowed between her brows. Such frivolous thoughts about her demeanor or her appearance usually didn’ttrouble her at all. Expelling another sigh, she shook off her odd mood, reminding herself that in such a large crowd there should be a few members of the London Botanical Society present. At least the evening wouldn’t be a complete waste of time …
“Miss Chilton.”
Though it was pitched quite softly, there was no mistaking the rich baritone voice that sounded from behind her.
Alex turned to face the earl. “Good evening, milord.” She smiled—quite effortlessly, much to her surprise. “It’s quite a crush tonight, is it not?”
Branford raised a brow. “Come, Miss Chilton. You disappoint me. Surely you don’t make a habit of uttering the usual polite platitudes.” His face was deadpan, but there was a twinkle in his sapphirine eyes.
“What would you prefer, sir? That I recite the phylum, genus and species of that …” She glanced quickly around. “… rare orchid over between the delphiniums?”
The twinkle became even more pronounced. “Which you no doubt know.”
“Or perhaps you would prefer something more practical—as in if you move your right elbow a fraction of an inch to the left, you will send Lady Killington’s priceless crystal vase to its demise.”
Looking surprised, Branford straightened with a start, narrowly averting disaster.
Alex struggled without success to suppress a grin.
“Impudent chit,” he murmured as he took her arm and guided her to the dance floor. “I should like to know more about your work, Miss Chilton,” he said, before she could muster a protest at being made to dance. “Tell me about the manuscript you are working on,” said Branford. In the next moment, the musicians struck up the opening chords and they began to move through the first figures of a waltz.
She looked up at him warily, searching his face for some hint of mockery. He merely cocked his head expectantly.
“It is not really a manuscript,” she answered slowly. “It is a series of watercolors on the wildflowers of Wiltshire, along with?—”
