Raphe stilled. A second passed, and then he got to his feet. “Also Mr. last name.”
Humphreys groaned. “I knew you weren’t ready!”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Raphe said as he grabbed his cravat and began winding it around his throat. “Of course I am.”
“Not when you don’t know that the younger son of a duke or a marquess should be addressed with, ‘Lord first name.’” He looked about ready to throw up his hands with exasperation. “How many times have we been over this?”
“Too many to count,” Raphe told him dryly. And then, “Don’t worry. It will be fine.”
Humphreys stared at him. “How can you say that when your cravat looks like something a laundry woman just rung out?”
Muttering an oath, Raphe stepped away from the mirror and faced his valet. “Can you help?”
A bright smile stretched its way across Humphreys’s face. “I’d be delighted to.”
One hour later, following a few thorough reminders on etiquette from Pierson, Humphreys, and Richardson, Raphe climbed into the Huntley phaeton and began the short ten-minute drive that would take him to Fielding House. His sisters, whom he’d seen before leaving home, had assured him that he looked more handsome than any other man they’d ever seen, their eyes shining with admiration when he’d demonstrated his newly acquired bow to each of them in turn.
“You look like a bloomin’ prince, Raphe,” Amelia had declared.
While Juliette, the quieter of the two sisters, had smiled prettily before saying, “I barely recognize you.” Both had managed to drop their ye’s and replace them with you’s.
“It’s your turn next,” he’d told them with a wink.
The carriage swayed slightly as it turned out onto Piccadilly, the springs easing the uneven rhythm of the cobblestones below. Tugging gently at his cravat, Raphe silently cursed Humphreys for tying it so tightly. Hell, he’d be lucky if he’d be able to swallow his food and drink, considering how restrictive the bloody thing felt.
Another five minutes brought the carriage to a gradual stop in front of a mansion that stood secluded on the fringe of what appeared to be a large park. Reaching for the tiny brass knob beside him, Raphe prepared to open the door, when it swung open, almost causing him to fall out. Halting his progress, he stared down at the footman who stood at attention and quietly cursed himself for forgetting that he was expected to depend on servants to see to his every need now, no matter how much that bothered him.
Alighting, he took a moment to straighten himself before facing the footman, still holding the door. “Thank you,” he told him with the swift authoritative precision that he’d been practicing with Pierson.
The man’s eyes widened just enough to convey how shocked he was to have been addressed at all. A moment of awkward silence passed until the footman eventually allowed himself to respond with a brief nod. Turning away from him, Raphe strode forward, conscious of keeping his chin up and his eyes trained on the doorway before him as he started up the front steps toward the spot where another servant stood waiting.
“Welcome to Fielding House, Your Grace,” the man said, upon reading the invitation Raphe handed to him. “Right this way.” He directed Raphe toward the foyer, where another servant stood ready to escort Raphe through to a large parlor that appeared to have been adorned by a gathering of finely clad ladies and gentlemen. They stood and sat in clusters throughout, gems sparkling beneath the brightly illuminated chandeliers overhead. Their clothes were rich, their postures regal, regardless of age, and their mannerisms seemed to convey the sort of superiority that was owned, not acquired.
“The Duke of Huntley,” the servant intoned as soon as Raphe stepped over the threshold.
All conversation drew to an immediate halt. And then, as if commanded by the servant’s voice, each pair of eyes within the room turned to give Raphe their full attention. Stiffly, he remained where he was, uncertain of what was expected of him at this moment. He glanced about, inadvertently searching the curious faces for one in particular, only to discover that she wasn’t there. His heart slowed to a heavy beat.
“Your Grace,” a shrill voice cried. Turning toward it, Raphe saw that it belonged to a petite woman with silver hair. Her face was long and slim, her eyes sharp with predatory arrogance. Coming to a halt before him, she allowed a smile, the pink slash of her lips pulling tightly at her pale skin. “We are so delighted to finally meet you. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Lady Fielding, your hostess for the evening.”
“A pleasure,” Raphe said. He paused for a second. Richardson had told him to bow before his hostess, but that scenario had involved Raphe approaching her and not the other way around. Additionally, he’d been told to bow before speaking. Too late to change that now, though the question still remained—should he bow before her now, or not? Unsure, he attempted something a little less formal than what he’d initially had in mind, just a slight tilt of his torso.
Straightening himself, he tried to assess Lady Fielding’s response, but gave up on doing so when her expression failed to convey any kind of emotion. Instead, she raised her head slightly, her eyebrows arching into two sharp points. “Shall I introduce you to the rest of the guests?”
Raphe nodded. “Thank you. I’d appreciate that.”
She stared at him with considerable scrutiny until Raphe began to wonder if he might have said or done something to displease her. He could think of nothing, until she stepped toward him, turned and raised her hand, as though it was meant to be resting on something.
Giving himself a mental kick, Raphe quickly offered her his arm. Christ! How many times had Humphreys reminded him to do so? Apparently, he was incapable of remembering the simplest things, which did not bode well for the rest of the evening.
They started forward. Raphe made a deliberate effort to keep his pace slow and his stride half as long as usual in order to avoid dragging his hostess. “You have a lovely home,” he told her.
She glanced up at him. “It is in the Greek style.”
“I see.”
Arriving before a small group of ladies and gentlemen, Lady Fielding said, “May I introduce Baron Hawthorne and his wife, Lady Hawthorne, the Duke of Coventry and his mother, the Dowager Duchess of Coventry. And my son, the Earl of Fielding, with whom, I believe, you are already acquainted.”
Raphe greeted everyone with a bow and a general, “Pleased to meet you.” Eventually, his gaze met Fielding’s. Seeing no hint of malice, he decided to be polite. “You look well.”
