“I am, in no way, bored by the duchess,” he said flatly.
“Oh yes, I suppose you wouldn’t be,” Lady Blicken mused.
And now he almost did laugh.
“This is a very fine house,” Lady Blicken enthused, allowing Ian to all but carry her down the stairs as her gaze swung right and left. Twice he dodged a sharp-pronged embellishment on her hat.
“You’ve an estate in Dorset, do you not, Your Grace?” she asked.
“Aye,” he said. “Avenelle. Near the village of Frampton.”
She wasn’t listening. Ian would lay odds that every morsel of Lachlan gossip had been ferreted out of friends and servants since the wedding. Questions were asked only to confirm and gauge reactions.
“Oh, Frampton is very pretty,” said Lady Blicken. “You will love it, Mena,” she called to Drew. “You’ll need to mind the sun, of course, so very close to the sea.”
To Ian, she said, “Her coloring barely tolerates the cold, dim light of London; summers at the seaside will be entirely out of the question. Your children may inherit her pallor and have the same aversion.”
“Her interest in birding has likely prepared her for exposure to the elements,” Ian said, joining Drew on the last step.
“Oh yes,” sighed Lady Blicken. “The birds. Well, I aimed to make her ladylike and serene and she repaid me with field tromping and bush sitting. A great lot of bother that particular hobby has caused us, hasn’t it, Drewsmina? But I took care of it, in the end. Never you fear. A dodgedbullet, thank you very much. Despite all of the carrying on. And now look at you. Married to a duke. I’ll not hold my breath, waiting for gratitude, despite what might have been. And with whom.Thanks to all the little birdies.”
“There is a gallery, Mother,” said Drew briskly, “of art. Paintings, sculpture. Perhaps a good place to begin. I cannot say if the fires have been lit, but there are windows with nice light.”
Drew glanced at them, and Ian felt marginally ridiculous standing with her mother draped on his arm. He tried to fix an I’d-prefer-she-not-cling expression on his face, but he couldn’t be rude. Lady Blicken missed nothing. Drew’s own enigmatic expression—hardly his favorite, considering how much he enjoyed her expressive face—was a testament to her mother’s careful judgment of every detail. Drew had transformed herself into a moving statuary, serene and ladylike, just as she’d been taught. Not rude but not happy. Also, oddly inanimate.
“Oh a gallery,” considered Lady Blicken. “Inside a London townhome. Perhaps this is where you convened the wedding breakfast? For your great many guests, none of whom included me, of course. Or your sister.”
“Oh, the royal princess was in attendance,” corrected Ian with feigned innocence.
“I meant heractualsister. Anastasia, Lady Madewood,” said Lady Blicken. She kept her voice so very light, but the message was very pointed.
“We convened the wedding breakfast in the dining room,” said Drew. “It was quite small.”
“Which raises one question from which I cannot escape. Why should a duke of some means go so far as toget married...but maintain such secrecy? No celebration to speak of? If the bride cannot bear to invite her own mother and sister, so be it, Lord knows we are accustomed, but have the two of you no friends? What ofyourfamily, Your Grace?”
“Oh, my family were in attendance,” he said.
Lady Blicken frowned. “If nothing else, I would have sent a gift.”
“We require no gifts,” Drew said, and Ian realized her tactic. She minced through each of her mother’s accusation-laced statements and responded to the most innocuous one.
“It’s almost as if you have something tohide,” laughed Lady Blicken.
“Here is the gallery,” Drew said, pushing open the doors. She disappeared inside. At his side, her mother still clung. Ian wondered how he could best be an ally to his wife. Left to his own devices, he would have said, “You’re terrible, and no one likes you,” and deserted her to find her own way out. But he was determined to not make the situation worse.
Lady Blicken narrowed her eyes at the open doorway, made atsking noise, and smiled up at Ian. “No backbone; never has had. She flees at the first sign of censure. I blame myself.”
“Ah,” said Ian, “something on which we might all agree.”
Lady Blicken’s smile faltered and then transformed in a mischievous grin. “Aren’t you a clever one. Whatever she’s told you about me, I’d take it with a grain of salt. She exaggerates to detract from her own failings, and no one is immune. She does not value loyalty.”
Ian could not remember ever making the acquaintance of someone so unrelentingly cruel and critical, all served with a breezy, chummy sort of smile. Unless he was mistaken, she wasflirtingwith him. And holding up her own daughter as the object of their shared scorn.
Ian frowned and said, “After you, my lady.”
“Oh, how spare,” Lady Blicken said. “And... alpine? Arctic?Cold, perhaps is the correct word.” She drifted into the room.
Ian almost laughed. She was not incorrect. The gallery was sterile and impersonal. He’d not gotten around to renovating the room or determining some solution for his grandfather’s boring art collection. The woman had a gift.She was hateful and quick but very precise, if you happened to share the most ungenerous view.
