Chapter Eight
Lanora was inexplicably miffed when Lord William never returned to claim his waltz. Not that she’d agreed to one, but she expected him to insist. His hazel eyes were a stormy blue-green as they talked, giving her the impression his interest was more than passing. But, that was the way of a rogue, making a woman feel he meant more than he said. Still, each time a waltz began, a breathless anticipation touched her, but she never saw his tall form again.
Until she went to sleep. Then they waltzed endlessly through her dreams. They also spoke of Mr. Darington and her father, though Lanora couldn’t remember what was said. In her dreams, she took Lord William to see the home for women Mr. Darington was building, only to find an empty square of land.
She woke early and gave up on the pretense of rest. She didn’t know what her mind was trying to tell her, with the mix of dancing and talking. Obviously, Lord William was handsome. More so than the average gentleman, being taller, with a physique that bespoke strength, but that shouldn’t warrant a restless night. Perhaps it was her failure to inquire about Mr. Darington? Lord William represented an opportunity to pass along her concern about the lack of progress on the home for women. Lanora, too caught up in his charms, had squandered that chance.
She slipped from bed and began to ready for the day, her brows puckered in a frown. She’d spent the previous evening thinking about Lord William. Then the entire night. Now, he filled her morning thoughts. If she didn’t know better, she’d worry she was developing some sort of infatuation with the man.
That, of course, was impossible. Impeccable tailoring and good looks aside, he was a rake. He was one step above a highwayman. She’d rather have an absurd infatuation with the unknown Lord Lefthook, like all the other ladies of London.
Still, she found she couldn’t put Lord William from her mind, especially the strain in his voice when he spoke of the poorest part of London. It was an odd tone for a future marquess. Then there was her aunt’s tacit approval of him.
Perhaps that was the trouble. Her aunt’s words in the carriage had wheedled their way into Lanora’s mind. Aunt Edith knew precisely where to strike; the people who would someday be beholden to Lanora. She loved her home and the people there. She would never leave them to the uncertainty of who-knew-what remote relation, or have the land reverted to the crown to be overseen from afar. The only way to stop that was to have a child, and the only way for that to happen was to marry.
Give up her freedom. Have someone there to tell her Grace was her maid, not her friend. That she couldn’t celebrate Christmas with the staff, or attend country dances. Could she give up her life to ensure the future of those she cared for? What if she bore a son and he grew up to be a rake, like his father?
Lanora gave her head a vigorous shake. Why would her son’s father be a rake? She would not marry a rake, especially not Lord William. She’d spoken with the man once. He hadn’t even returned to dance with her. Likely, he’d already forgotten their exchange. She was being ridiculous.
Lanora made her way to the breakfast parlor, a silly affectation. At home, she ate in the kitchen with the staff. Why force Cook and her helpers to rise early, devote the morning to creating a cornucopia of items, then carry them all into a parlor, employing a ludicrous number of platters and plates, so that Lanora could pick out the two items she wanted and eat alone at a giant table?
Here, though, that was how it must be. Her aunt seemed to enjoy the breakfast parlor, and the selection, as did her terriers. Much of Cook’s work went into dogs’ bellies. Grace also assured Lanora that word would get out if she behaved in so odd a manner, for staff gossiped. On top of that, much of the food was repurposed to serve with tea in the event of callers, and everything that was left was consumed by the staff, who would be dismayed not to receive it. So, with the entire household arrayed against her, Lanora must dine alone in the breakfast parlor, while her aunt and the pups snored the morning away in their rooms and Grace ate in the kitchen in the company of friends.
Lanora nibbled on toast and sipped her tea, theTimesopen before her. Another joy a husband would undoubtedly take from her. He would claim the paper first, likely not deeming her mind capable of understanding it.
“Why are you making that face?” Grace said as she entered the room. She carried her gloves and hat. “Who has angered you?”
Lanora set her teacup down. “No one.” She shrugged. “Rather, men. My aunt says I must have one.”
“You know she’s correct.” Grace’s look was sympathetic.
“You don’t have one. She doesn’t have one. Cook doesn’t have one.”
“None of us have your responsibilities.” Grace smiled. “Besides, how can I become your cook if you stay in your father’s country house and dine in the kitchen? You’re to have a home of your own, and proper meals, and entertain.”
She took in Grace’s dreamy tone and sighed. “Yes, well, at least one of us shall be happy.”
“We will find you a gentleman who makes you happy. We’ll simply investigate them, like we do at home before dispensing charity.”
“There’s no village to ask around, and we can hardly walk over and survey each man’s holdings, as we would a farm.”
“This is London.” Grace’s smile turned sly. “It’s easier. We simply bribe a man’s servants and we shall know all. When I return from the paper, you shall tell me if there are any gentlemen in particular who make you go all calf-eyed, and we’ll send out footmen to bribe their staff.”
“Wonderful.” Lanora didn’t hide her lack of enthusiasm.
“It will be, as will bargaining the best price for this Lefthook story.” Grace donned her hat and tied the ribbon under her chin.
“You’re not to give your name, or Mrs. Banke’s.”
“I know. I won’t be long.” She pulled on her gloves and, with a jaunty wave, left the parlor.
Lanora sighed, envious of Grace’s freedom. Lady Lanora Hadler could never go to the paper with a story about Lord Lefthook. She would become the story. Grace could go. She could give a false name, or none at all, and no one would press her. They wouldn’t care who she was in view of what she had to tell.
Grace could be a cook and eat in the kitchen if she liked, and not marry if she didn’t find a man she wished to wed. Lanora knew many lady’s maids didn’t live as happily as Grace. They were put upon, demeaned, made to endure uncertainty and, sometimes, unwanted attention from the men of the house. Still, in that moment, being Grace seemed more preferable than being the only child of a duke.
Irritated with her petulance, Lanora gave up on her toast and went to the library to browse her grandfather’s collection. She preferred her father’s books in their country home. Still, searching through those assembled by her more distant ancestors, who preferred London, was interesting. She liked to imagine her father there as a child, and tried to pick out the books he would have been drawn to. That strategy soon found her in the front parlor, where the light was best, reading theIliadin archaic Greek.
Much of it was tricky, for the Greek she’d learned was modern, but that made it all the more entertaining. After all, she already knew the story. She’d read it several times, in several languages. She sat curled in an armchair near the window, engrossed, when someone cleared their throat.
