Griston’s taunting gaze raked over Brock before swiveling back to her. The two treated her as if she were a bone between two starving dogs. Griston took her hand, bowing over it. “You are too generous, Lady Maudsley.”
“Yes, you are,” Brock muttered under his breath.
Thorne Gray, Lord Kimpton, stepped into the fray. “Ah, Brock. A word if you please.”
“Not now, Kimpton.” The tension in Brock’s wide shoulders looked ready to snap. His eyes never wavered from Griston. Griston showed verve, however, regaining the step he’d relinquished a minute earlier.
“Sorry, old man. This won’t wait. I’ve word on the package we’ve been after.” Kimpton spoke sharply.
“So mysterious, Lord Kimpton?” Ginny said, curiosity teasing her, what with Griston’s abrupt stillness and the reluctant turn of Brock’s head.
After a long awkward pause, Brock’s stubbornness seemed to give way to common sense. “Of course, Kimpton. Lady Maudsley, we’ll speak later.” The phrase was uttered in his usual arrogant and abrasive manner—a command, not a request.
“Perhaps,” she said, determined to have the last word.
Irritated and disgustingly curious, Ginny watched as Brock and Kimpton strode out the French doors, disappearing in the darkness beyond. Mixed feelings rained over her like the four seasons within a span of seconds: tepid, freezing, hot, cool. Each one at their most dramatic.
“Protective, is he not?” Griston said, smiling.
“Protective?” She laughed. The laugh fell in line with the boisterous, high-strung shrill that she’d prayed had died with her late husband. “Arrogant, certainly.” Ginny slid a glance to her companion from the corner of her eye. A spark of hope lit within. Lord Griston did not seem at all put out by her annoying laugh. Instead, he grabbed her hand, placing it on his arm. For the second time that night, she molded her features bland from the stitch of pain that streaked up her arm. The horrible break her wrist had suffered from Maudsley’s last beating was still sensitive to sudden jerks and twists.
Griston was oblivious. She was grateful, of course. It would be mortifying for anyone to learn the lengths she’d gone to hide the ravaged fate of her marriage. “How is your son, Lord Griston? Viscount Yates? If memory serves, he’s the same age as my eldest daughter, Irene.”
“Quite well. Thank you for inquiring. He’ll be at Eaton in the fall. His first year.” He led her on a stroll, keeping to the perimeter of the room. “I’m most proud.”
“Oh my. I must admit, I’m glad to have daughters. I don’t know where I would be if I had to send them away to school at such young ages,” she said, thinking of Irene’s unprecedented need to care for others and Celia’s natural exuberance and knack for mischief.
He chuckled. “Yes. It seems we share a common oddity in that we interact with our children rather than keeping them out of sight.”
She stopped and looked at him. Really looked at him. “I—yes. I suppose that is true.” She gave him a brilliant smile that seemed to take him aback.
“You have a lovely mouth, Lady Maudsley. I’d never realized,” he murmured. The silence between them built, then he said, “I wish to invite you to my country home.”
A fiery heat of outrage burned up her neck like a rush of flowing lava. She jerked her hand from him, biting back the sharp twinge. “Sir! I am not—”
Surprise then chagrin covered his features that dulled his face to red. “My apologies, Lady Maudsley. Please. Allow me to clarify.”
It took a full minute for Ginny’s heart rate to even out from its erratic chaos. She was poised to flee but forced herself to breathe in slow leveled inhalations, reminding herself she was in full view of society. Nothing would happen to her there. It was reputed that Lord Griston did have a care for his name. “I’m waiting, sir.”
“I am hosting a house party at my country home in Colchester and only wish to include you. ’Tis nothing extravagant, mind. My mother is there and will act as hostess.” He gave her a brilliant smile. “I’m hoping to change that in the near future.”
For her?Ginny’s breath hitched in a different rush of emotion. Her gaze shifted quickly to the open French doors.
Unencumbered, Griston went on. “The invites went out weeks ago.” A careless shrug lifted one shoulder. “You’ve been in mourning and it would have been beyond rude of me to intrude upon your privacy. But seeing you here tonight…”
“Th-thank you for the invitation, my lord—”
“Please. Call me Loren. Or Griston, if you feel I’m being too forward. Your friends Lord and Lady Kimpton have already accepted,” he said, smoothly cutting off her rejection. “Along with the Peachornsbys, Lady Alymer, and the Martindales—” He waved a hand in the air. “Others too, I suppose.” Smiling, he took her hand again, setting it atop his arm. “I’m unsure of who all. The invitations are under my mother’s charge.”
The invitation seemed far too sudden. She was barely out of mourning.If you wait any longer, people will think you hold a candle for your late husband.Lorelei’s words flittered through her. Perhaps she could use a bit of entertainment. But leaving the girls… “I don’t know—”
Griston’s hand rested on his heart, his eyes begging. “Please, my lady. I would be devastated if you turned me down.”
Perhaps it was time to look to the future. Brock was her past. Maudsley was dead. What could it hurt?
“Take the evening to decide, my lady,” he said quickly. “I shall come by tomorrow for my answer. Would you do me the honor of a carriage ride through the park?”
“Thank you, my lord. I should be happy to accept that invitation.”
