Her full plump lips turned down. “On the upside, the girls were most compliant when I mentioned your willingness to assist me.”
His chin fell to his chest, the tightening within let loose. “I see.” A gratifying revolution, he thought. God, how he wished to carry her away from this place. Away from everyone, everything. But people talked, and she was only just out of mourning. He started to reach for her, but his hesitance cost him the opportunity. The door swung wide, and the butler was there to usher them in. Brock followed Ginny into Griston’s grandiose foyer, where black-and-white marble floors presented a striking contrast to the carved banister rising on either side of the vast hall.
“Lady Maudsley and his lordship, the Marquis of Brockway, my lady,” Kimpton said, snagging Brock’s attention. “The dowager Lady Griston.”
“My lady.” Brock bowed over a pudgy proffered hand. Griston’s mother was a small woman, meaning short. And round. Very round. Griston had apparently procured his looks from his paternal side. He and his mother, however, shared the same dark, cold brown eyes. Hers were close together giving her a beady, garish look. A harridan. Mid-fifties, he’d guess.
The dowager turned to Ginny with an assessing gaze that set Brock’s teeth on edge. Clearly, Griston had aired his intentions for Ginny to his mother. “Lady Maudsley,” she murmured.
Griston strode in from a door to their right, his dark hair windblown, his black hessians dusty. Once pressed and starched, he would have a look that rivaled Byron’s poetical set from a few years ago. The high forehead, the straight nose, the pouty mouth. Brock searched his memory and couldn’t place rumors that Griston frequented gaming hells or risked ridiculous amounts of money. In his own hall, he appeared cool and controlled, barring a disturbing depth in his eyes that Brock found unsettling.
“Lady Maudsley, how good of you to grace us with your presence.” The company parted, and he took up her hand, forcing Brock’s clenched fist to his side when the inclination was to swing hard. And wild. Griston turned to his other guests. “Kimpton, Lady Kimpton. How lovely to see you. My apologies for my appearance, I’ve just returned from dealing with a property nuisance.”
Ginny gave him a beaming smile. “Nothing serious, I hope?”
“All has been resolved.” He glanced at his mother. “I don’t anticipate further disturbances.”
Brock’s gaze moved between the two, their unspoken communication speaking volumes. It sent a sharp prickling between his shoulders.
“Excellent.” Lady Griston spun about and snapped her fingers. “Travers, please have our guests shown to their chambers. Place Lady Maudsley in the Lilac Chamber.” Griston’s gaze flashed, but his mother ignored him, turning back to the four of them, the barest glimpse dashing past Ginny. Lady Griston’s regard seemed to have gathered an icy chill.
How curious. And fortunate for Brock. He could stand the advantage. The woman might be a beastly snob, but he’d kiss her pudgy hand again in thanks if offered.
Brock crowded Ginny in a fit of his younger rebellious self. No one would slight Virginia Wimbley, not while he had a breath in his body. Ginny tensed beside him, but her head remained high. From a side angle, he noted the strain in her smile, her jaw tightened, her fingers clasped tightly.
She’d recognized the woman’s rebuff.
Brock cast Lady Griston a sardonic grin, fully aware of the building storm. He didn’t care. Ginny had paid a terrible price for Brock’s mishap of years’ past, and he meant to right it, whatever the cost.
There was an upside, he found, in watching Griston study his mother beneath a hooded gaze. He was furious, Brock realized. Regardless, the man observed etiquette, inclining his head to the group. “I shall see you all for drinks in the parlor at seven. If you’ll excuse me, I must change,” he said with a smooth smile. “Until later.”
The housekeeper led the group of bystanders up the stairs, and Loren snagged his mother by the arm before she could escape, tugging her into his study off the entry hall before the pain slicing through his head drove him to his knees. “I thought I told you Lady Maudsley was to have the chamber nearest the stairs.” He wanted nothing questioning her suitability as his wife.
“Darling, whatever has gotten into you? That room is much too small and secluded for your future Countess.” Her coyness was too sly to be considered innocent.
A tap sounded at the door. “What is it, Travers?”
“A message, sir.”
Loren snapped it open, and his heart almost stopped as spots danced across his vision. He glanced at his mother. “We’ll discuss this later. Don’t try my patience, Mother. I’m warning you. I want Lady Maudsley, and you’ll not stand in my way. You’re dismissed.” Her eyes widened in outrage, but she left, shutting the door softly, and wisely so, in his estimation. Loren scanned the message again. Thankfully, he hadn’t yet changed clothes.
He raced up the stairs and tugged the bell. Seconds later Travers poked his head in. “Where’s Farcle?” he snapped.
“I’m not certain, my lord. I haven’t seen him since you returned from your earlier errand.”
Right, the gypsy.Loren let out a frustrated sigh. “I should tend to my guests.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Eight
A
t the top of the stairs, Ginny and Brock were intercepted by a young girl. Her mob cap did a poor job of keeping her unruly hair from her eyes. “I’m Ina, my lady. The Lilac room is this way.”
Brock’s expression marbleized.
Ginny’s patience fled. “Oh, for heaven’s sake. Quit playing the high-handed lord of the manor. You have no rights over me,” she whispered hotly. She threw back her shoulders and stalked after Ina down a softly lit hall. The farther they went, the more confused and uneasy she became. “Isn’t this the family wing?”
