The earl frowned. “Who could it be at this—” He snatched the card up and read it.
He shot to his feet.
Then he sat down hard again.
Then he stood up again and sat down again, and smoothed his hair.
The countess leaned toward him. “Dear, why the agitation?”
He showed the card to his wife.
“Oh!” She excitedly patted her own hair. “Good heavens. How unusual. But should we? With Miss Woodville here? I don’t know, dear. It’s not quite proper, is it? It’s not the done thing. He’s—but—”
Ginny found herself smoothing her own hair, reflexively. Who on earth could cause such a stir? Theking?
The earl hesitated.
“Bring him in, if you would, Farnham.”
The footman disappeared.
And returned with Mr. Marchand.
Mr. Marchand brought the woodsmoke scent of the night in with him on his coat, as though he’d materialized out of fire and brimstone. His cheeks were ruddy from the chill. He’d pushed back his hair. He looked excruciatingly dashing.
He was a fresh shock every time she saw him, Ginny realized then. Every time she needed to reacclimate to the fact of his shoulders and cheekbones and the whole fact of him.
His eyes found her the way an arrow finds a bull’s-eye, and they flared in triumph—clearly, he’d somehow known she’d be here, and felt vindicated—and burned with a distinct warning.
She glared back at him.
For a mad moment she considered bellowing the epithet that immediately sprang to mind. How liberating it would be to incinerate what was left of her reputation. To burn it all down completely in front of an audience who would probably waste no time making sure all of the ton knew. It was so exhausting clutching at the shreds of her dignity.
The earl and countess didn’t notice, as they were busy gazing admiringly at Mr. Marchand.
“To what do we owe this rare honor, Mr. Marchand?” said Lord Sydenham.
“I was in the neighborhood and I thought I’d bring the Malbec you enjoyed the other evening. It’s a marvelous vintage. I got some in especially for you.”
“And how thoughtful of you to remember how much Ienjoyed it, Marchand. I know Malbec is not all the rage at the moment.”
“It is among those of us with excellent taste,” Marchand assured him. “My apologies, Lord Sydenham. If I’d known you were already entertaining a charming guest, I would never have dreamed of intruding.”
Liar, she silently mouthed to Mr. Marchand.
“You’re not intruding at all.” The earl sounded aghast at the very notion. “It seems to be our night for unusual but charming callers. May I present Miss Guinevere Woodville.”
She sullenly rose to her feet. “How do you do, Mr. Marchand?”
“How do you do, Miss Woodville?” He bowed like a courtier, the fraud.
“This is the Mr. Marchand who owns the gentleman’s club we were discussing, Miss Woodville. Isn’t that a coincidence?” The countess was thrilled. “It’s as though we conjured him with a magic spell!”
Ginny yearned to point out that anything that conjured Marchand was really more of a curse than a spell.
She dipped a perfunctory curtsy and sat down again.
“Stay and have a bit of that Malbec with us, Mr. Marchand,” the countess coaxed. “Give Farnham your coat and the bottle. He’ll open it for us.”
