He frowned. “Are you certain? I hesitated to add it, thinking it too far away.”
She gave him a brilliant smile. “I shall decide if something is too far away or not, my lord. Thank you for your trouble. Might I keep the list?”
Kimpton inclined his head. “Of course, Lady Alymer. When you are ready to view the properties, I’m more than happy to accompany you.”
“Me too,” Harlowe said, stunning her into a small stumble.
Harlowe righted her with a quick hand. “Excellent. That’s settled then.”
Thirteen
U
pon Maeve’s return, Parson was determined to take her time with Maeve’s attire, her hair, pinning her hat in place. It was an adorable confection of sky blue with a light netting that covered the top half of her face, but Parson’s fussing was too much. “Is this necessary?”
“It needs to be perfect. He’s a marquis.”
“What an ambassador you are for Lady Ingleby,” Maeve told her.
Parson didn’t respond, but the aspersion hung low over the room.
A flutter of nerves took flight in her abdomen. So ridiculous. She was a widow, not a debutante, as she was fond of reminding everyone, from her mother to her maid to Oxford.
Maeve paused at the top of the stairs. Maybe she wasn’t too late, and Dorset hadn’t yet arrived. Parson followed her to the parlor where a lively discussion was ensuing. “What’s this?” Maeve said.
“Might I get you a sherry?” Kimpton asked her.
“That sounds lovely.”
Kimpton filled a glass, handed it off to her, then sat in the chair next to her. “I made the mistake of suggesting a country stay amid the height of the season.”
“Oh, dear.”
“I’m not going, Lorelei.” Harlowe put a glass of whatever he was drinking to his lips, paused when his eyes met Maeve’s. “On the other hand, perhaps I could use fresher air than that of a soot-coal London. What say you, Lady Alymer? We can get started on those memoirs we spoke of.”
It wasn’t just Parson’s sharp intake behind Maeve that sent the fire crawling up her neck, it was the piercing, questioning, amusing, challenging four pairs of other eyes fused to her person.
“Surely, you don’t mean to depart before my drive with Dorset?” she said lightly. There was some satisfaction in the scowl replacing the challenge in Brandon’s expression.
“The Marquis of Dorset,” Oswald announced.
Dorset strolled in, and Maeve realized a moment of panic when every adult, Kimpton, Lorelei, Harlowe, and Parson, shifted their judgmental scrutiny from her to him.
“You seemed in an awful hurry to get away, Lady Alymer. Might I hope you vied for my company so greatly?”
Maeve didn’t find Dorset’s comment in the least amusing—well, maybe she did a little. “If you like,” she said primly, wondering when she’d reverted to a blushing schoolgirl. An awkward silence prevailed until their carriage reached the crowded lanes of Rotten Row. “Everyone and their mother appear to have crawled out of the woodwork,” she muttered.
“Not yours.”
“For which you should be grateful,” she retorted. She leveled him with a smug grin of her own. “You can be sure she’ll hear of this little outing. She’s probably dancing about Ingleby House, counting down the days until she can place an announcement in theGazette.”
“Would that be so horrible?” he asked softly. His eyes remained on the path before him.
Stunned. She was stunned. She was horrible at small talk. Her heart pounded, and that panic mushroomed in her chest. Her gaze shot around the park, stopping on Welton and Shufflebottom in the distance. From their horses, they spoke to a woman dressed in the first stare of fashion. It was all the distraction Maeve needed. From this stretch, Maeve couldn’t make out much about the woman. She rode her own mount, then tossed her head and trotted away.
Welton and Shufflebottom exchanged words, then looked over and caught her staring.
Maeve quickly shifted her gaze. “The weather’s lovely, isn’t it?”
