It was Branford’s turn to hesitate. “Thank you.”
He tossed the reins to his tiger, giving directions for the horses to be cooled down, then followed Justin up the stairs. After Givens took their hats and walking sticks, Justin immediately headed for the library.
Instead of waiting in the drawing room, as Justin had offered, Branford followed along.
“Alex, Aunt Aurelia, we have a guest for tea!” called Justin
Alex didn’t lifther eyes from her easel. She wore a shapeless smock over her gown, and had a large paintbrush stuck behind her ear. It had dislodged a number of hairpins allowing her thick tresses to fall in disarray over one shoulder.
“What time is it?” she demanded, rubbing at the smudge of cerulean blue pigment on her cheekbone. The annoyance at being interrupted quite evident in her tone. “Can’t you send whoever it is away?”
Then, as she looked up, her eyes widened. “Oh!” The sound came out as little more than a squeak.
Branford approached the easel.
“M-milord,” she began.
He ignored her and came around to view the painting. “Hmmm.” He cocked his head to one side.
Mortified, Alex put down her brush and ran her fingers through her tangled hair. “It ismostdisconcerting to be interrupted in the middle of my work,” she said, covering her embarrassment with a show of artistic ire. “I told you, sir, I don’t make a habit of showing a work in progress?—”
“And yet it’s progressing very nicely,” observed Branford
“It is extremely ungentlemanly to barge in uninvited,” she countered.
A smile twitched on the earl’s lips. “But I was invited.”
Alex looked from the earl to her brother, then down at her paint-spattered smock.Hell’s bells—what the devil had her bacon-brained brother been thinking!
“Please excuse me, I had better go inform Cook that there will be one more for tea,” she said before rushing out of the room.
Nine
“Aunt Aurelia,” called Justin in a loud voice to get his aunt’s attention. “Lord Branford is going to join us for tea.”
“Oh!”
Squinting through the shadows cast by the piles of books staked on the long table, Branford was just able to make out an elderly lady half hidden by the tall leather-bound book she was reading.
“How nice,” added Lady Beckworth, smiling vaguely in their direction as she let the volume close with a thud. “He isn’t going to shoot anyone today, is he?”
Justin sucked in his breath.
“Rest assured, madam, I shall endeavor not to put a period to anyone's existence for the next hour,” answered the earl.
“Sorry, milord,” mumbled Justin in a low voice tight with embarrassment. “I must apologize for my family’s odd manners. It would be completely understandable if you wish to reconsider taking tea with us.”
A look of unholy amusement glinted in Branford’s eyes. “I wouldn’t dream of crying off, Chilton. “I’m very much looking forward to it.”
An hour later, Branford found that he was truly enjoying himself.
He had reviewed the upcoming races at Newcastle with Justin, making the young man laugh with some very pithy anecdotes concerning the jockeys due to ride … He had discussed Homer with Lady Beckworth, delighting the older lady by quoting passages in the original Greek … and he also discussed—though argued was a more accurate description—the aesthetics of garden design with Alex, taking secret pleasure in her strong opinions and her confidence in espousing them …
“What fustian,” snapped Alex in reply to an observation he had just made. “That is a typically male point of view—if there is a rock where you want a tree, simply dump a barrel of gunpowder on it and get rid of it.”
Branford regarded her thoughtfully. “And what, pray tell, would be a typical female reaction?”
“A female would look at the rock and the surroundings and consider whether the rock might work in harmony with a different arrangement of plantings —or whether the tree one wished to plant might look just as well in another spot.”
