Chapter
Six
“Garden parties are awful things, Windham.” Hayward drained the last of his lemonade and set the tiny glass cup aside. “I will bear you a grudge for all eternity for dragging me here today.”
“You’re in a temper.” To be fair, he had forced his friend from his bed rather early this morning, and after a late night at White’s last evening, too. Poor Hayward, who made it a point to be impeccably attired, was a trifle less splendid than usual today.
And that was putting it kindly. To put it unkindly, he looked as if he’d been dragged backward through a knothole.
“You may blame Lady Farthingale for my temper,” Hayward shot back with a scowl. “Of all the dull entertainments with which thetoncontrives to amuse themselves during the season, the garden party is the most diabolical.”
“Diabolical? That’s doing it a bit brown, surely. What’s so diabolical about them? It seems a pleasant enough way to pass a morning.”
“That’s the treachery of the thing! Don’t you see, Windham? They seduce one with promises of sun and fresh air. Who, after all, can complain of sunshine and fresh air?”
“You seem to be doing a good job of it, Hayward.”
“Nonsense. I never complain.”
Cass snorted. “No, of course not.”
“It’s the stinging insects I take issue with, and the unpredictability of the weather. It’s London in the spring, for God’s sake. And would you look at poor old Lady Everhardt stumbling about? The uneven ground is a hazard for the less surefooted among us. Mark my words, Windham. Today will end with a half-dozen twisted ankles.”
Cass nodded, but he was only half-listening to this harangue. His attention was on Lady Laetitia, who was arranging herself to picturesque advantage on a picnic blanket in the center of Lady Farthingale’s lawn.
“Dear God, I’m parched.” Hayward fumbled for his handkerchief and patted the perspiration from his brow. “Why is it so bloody hot? And what does Lady Farthingale mean, serving lemonade in a glass the size of a thimble?”
Cass shrugged. He didn’t have the patience for Hayward’s theatrics. He needed his wits about him this morning, just in case Hattie did come today, as she’d vowed she would.
The stubborn chit.
Someone had to keep an eye on the Parrish sisters until Lord Melrose arrived in London. Lady Fosberry would do her part, yes, but she couldn’t watch all three of them at once, and it wasn’t as if they’d go unnoticed. With their pretty faces and fat dowries, every scoundrel in London would be upon them like insects buzzing around a tray of sweets.
God knew no one else in London was going to keep them out of mischief, aside from Lady Fosberry, so for better or worse, the task had fallen on him. Yet at the same time it couldn’t appear as if he were preoccupied with them, unless he wished to bring Lady Laetitia’s ire down upon them.
A tricky balance, that, and he’d made a mess of it yesterday.
It had been careless of him to linger beside Lady Fosberry’s carriage in Berkeley Square. Laetitia had taken notice of it. She hadn’t been at all pleased about it, and her mother, Lady Tremblay would be apoplectic if she suspected he’d slighted Laetitia in favor of the Parrish sisters.
Some ten paces away, Laetitia had settled at last, and a knot of young ladies were now gathered around her, fluttering about like a kaleidoscope of pastel butterflies. Yes, that would do. Laetitia wasn’t likely to move if she remained at the center of a crowd of admirers.
But perhaps Hattie wouldn’t come, after all, despite her threats yesterday. She hadn’t made an appearance yet, and the party had begun nearly an hour ago.
She’d never made a secret of her distaste for Town and theton. No, of course she wouldn’t come?—
“Well, well, well.” Beside him, Hayward let out a low whistle. “What have we here?”
Cass turned to follow the direction of Hayward’s gaze and froze. There, standing in the open French doors that led out onto Lady Farthingale’s terrace stood Margaret, Hattie and Sarah Parrish, with every eye upon them.
It shouldn’t have surprised him that Hattie had proved to be as good as her word. She’d warned him she’d certainly be here this morning, but still he stood there gaping at her like a fool as she stepped onto the edge of the lawn, the morning sun flirting with the bright golden strands of her hair.
Margaret followed her, then Lady Fosberry, nodding at something Lady Dumfries was saying to her, her arm linked with Sarah’s.
But it was Hattie he couldn’t look away from.
She turned toward him, as if she could feel the weight of his gaze on her. Their eyes met, and just like that they were oppositepoles circling each other, the attraction holding them in its thrall even when there were dozens of people between them.
“Do stop gawking, Windham. You’re gaping at them as if you’ve seen an apparition. Then again, one can hardly blame you. The Parrish sisters are rather decorative, are they not? I’ll say this for garden parties. The young ladies do appear to great advantage in the sunshine. They’re rather like exotic birds, with their bright skirts and parasols.”
