Not that there was anything wrong with chattiness. Or with Lord Stoneleigh.
No, not a single—
“That’s a very fine instrument, Your Grace. Do you play, Miss Thorne?” Lord Stoneleigh nodded toward the pianoforte situated between two windows at the other end of the room. “Perhaps you might favor us with a song, if Her Grace approves it?”
Prue’s gaze flew to Franny’s, her fingers twitching in alarm. Nothing would put a quicker end to this courtship than her banging about on the pianoforte in her usual tuneless fashion. Her father often said her playing sounded like a half dozen racoons chasing each other across the keyboard.
Now, if Lord Stoneleigh had asked her to hunt, or shoot, or race she might have shown herself to proper advantage. She was a crack shot with a pistol and a bow and arrow, and she could outride any gentleman within a twenty-mile radius of Thornewood.
But those weren’t, alas, the sorts of skills that were of much use in a drawing room, were they? She gave him an apologetic smile. “I beg you’ll excuse me, my lord. I’m afraid I don’t have much of an ear for music.”
“No ear? Thatisa pity, Miss Thorne.” Lord Stoneleigh shook his head. “Perhaps a stricter dedication to your craft might help? I often advise my parishioners that practice is the greatest weapon against mediocrity.”
“You’re quite right, my lord. I’m ashamed to say I’ve rather neglected my music recently.” As recently as the last decade or so, that is.
“Not to worry, Miss Thorne. I have a lovely instrument at the parsonage.” Lord Stoneleigh patted her hand, then added hastily, “It’s nothing so grand as His Grace’s, of course, but it’s serviceable enough for a novice to practice upon.”
Prue gritted her teeth. There wasn’t a single thing wrong with Lord Stoneleigh. Not a single thing, only . . . was it really only four o’clock? It felt as though they’d been at tea for hours.
“Perhaps Miss Thorne might play for us another time, my lord.” Franny cast an uneasy glance at Prue. “It’s quite warm this afternoon, and I’m certain she’s fatigued from her journey from Wiltshire.”
“Of course. Forgive me, Miss Thorne. I didn’t think.” Lord Stoneleigh gave her an apologetic smile which warmed up his eyes a degree or two, and for an instant her spirits lifted. Mightn’t she grow fonder of him as they became more familiar with each other? He wasn’t abadman, after all. No, indeed. There wasn’t a single thing wrong with him.
Surely a gentleman with such a pleasant smile might work his way into her heart sooner or later? Perhaps it would all turn out well in the end, and—
“I’d be happy to supervise your practice if you’d like, Miss Thorne. I’ve been told I’m an excellent instructor, and I flatter myself there’s some truth to it.”
Or perhaps not.
Not that it mattered, one way or the other. Her toes were already hanging over the abyss. One push, and she’d trip into a courtship. From there it was a direct plunge over the edge, head tumbling over heels, straight into the bottomless chasm of marriage.
She’d never intended to marry. Unlike so many young ladies, she hadn’t dreamed about her future spouse, or imagined herself as a wife, but it was her only hope of getting herself and her father out from under a crushing debt, and it wasn’t as if there were dozens of wealthy gentlemen eager to wed a penniless bride.
Rather scarce on the ground, those sorts, especially in London.
Lord Stoneleigh was a rare specimen, a pearl in the oyster that was London’s marriage mart. That is, he was a man of some fortune and a respectable if modest title who need please no one but himself in his choice of wife. There was no exacting mama who demanded her son marry a title lurking over Lord Stoneleigh’s shoulders, and no cantankerous uncle holding his purse strings, his eye fixed on an heiress.
Of all the thousands of gentlemen in England, Lord Stoneleigh might be the only one who’d make both an appropriate and willing match for her.
An enthusiastic match even, if Franny were to be believed, but then Lord Stoneleigh had been wildly enthusiastic about the mantel clock as well, so it was difficult to tell if his admiration was sincere.
He’d been plain Mr. Robert Luttrell up until a year ago, a second son upon whom the Duke of Basingstoke had just conferred a valuable living in the parish of West Farleigh, where Basingstoke House, the duke’s country estate was located.
Since then, however, Mr. Luttrell had enjoyed an unexpected elevation in rank by the convenient death of a distant second cousin. He was now Baron Stoneleigh, and as a man of some consequence and a tidy fortune, he’d confided to Franny that he thought it only proper he find a wife to serve as his baroness and the mistress of his comfortable parsonage.
That he happened to be a friendly gentleman of impeccable principles added to his luster. So, Franny had duly invited Lord Stoneleigh to tea this afternoon, so Prue might get on with the business of making him fall in love with her.
If Lord Stoneleigh offered her his hand, she’d accept it, and considering the alternative—that is, no home at all, once Thornewood was sold—she’d count herself fortunate to get it. West Farleigh was a lovely little village, and Franny and Basingstoke spent a good deal of time at their country estate there. She’d see them often, and life as a vicar’s wife would be quiet and peaceful.
There were far worse fates than that, surely.
“I’m afraid you’ve been cooped up indoors for too long today, Prue.” Franny gave her a significant look. “You look a trifle languid. Does she not look languid, Your Grace?”
“Hmmm?” Basingstoke startled, his eyelashes fluttering open as if he’d just woken from a doze. “Did you say something, Your Grace?”
“Yes. I asked if Miss Thorne looks languid to you? It won’t do for her to become lethargic. I wonder if some exercise might do her good? Perhaps she and Lord Stoneleigh should take a stroll around the gardens.”
“Oh. Oh, yes!” Basingstoke said, finally catching on. “Indeed, Miss Thorne, I must insist you go for a walk at once. The fresh air will perk you right up.”
