Page 64 of Earl, Enemy, Husband?

She swallowed the dryness in her throat and tried to think logically. ‘Would it not be better to warn your son?’

‘I doubt he would listen to me. His father never did. There’s no help for it, my dear. I am afraid you will just have to make the best of it as I did. Hold your head up and do your duty according to your lights.’

A spurt of anger stiffened Florence’s spine. It was Graydon who had pressed her to wed, repeatedly. Shouldn’t he also do his duty?

The thought of confronting Graydon about it made her feel sick to her stomach. Perhaps, as his mother had suggested, she should just make the best of it.

She felt cold all over.

Shoulders braced, Florence walked down the stairs. Powell stood ready to open the door, having sent up a message that her husband had been delayed at his club and to go on without him. He would meet her at Lady Swann’s house.

In other words, he had let her down just when she needed his support the most. All morning she had imagined talking to him, alternating between indicating that she understood perfectly and had absolutely no intention of being a jealous wife, to treating him to chilly civility for the rest of her life.

Neither had felt right. And then there was that other thought, that she would try do everything in her power to make him forget that he cared for Lady Standish.

One glance at her reflection in the mirror dressed in her afternoon finery had driven a spike in that resolve. She could never out-match such a beauty. But, if she was no match with regard to beauty, did she not have other qualities that were equally, if not more, important? But, when she ran through them in her mind—intelligence, loyalty, honesty—they made her sound like a blue stocking or, worse yet, a self-righteous prude.

She sighed. She should face it; Lady Standish had her beaten on all counts, except the one that counted: Florence was his wife.

And she would show herself the better woman, somehow.

She stepped out into the drizzle that had been falling all morning and ducked beneath the umbrella held overhead by the footman. ‘Thank you,’ she said as he helped her up into the carriage.

Was it only a month or so ago that she had tramped to Stoor in the rain and thoroughly enjoyed it? It seemed in London one must not get a drip of rain on one’s fashionable hat. As she settled back against the squabs, she could not but help admit that the rain in London seemed to bring with it a great deal of the soot that escaped from every chimney and turned everything a dingy grey.

The drive was a short one and the same footman who had shielded her in Grosvenor Street helped her down and escorted her to Lady Swann’s front door.

There were surprisingly few guests in the drawing room, when the butler ushered her in: Mr Redfern, talking with another gentleman she did not know; Mr Aldrich; and a group of ladies gathered around Lady Standish, who glanced across the room, and glided towards her, all the while looking eagerly past her shoulder…looking for Graydon.

Florence clamped down on her hurt and smiled.

‘Lady Blackdown. How good of you to come,’ Lady Standish said. ‘Isn’t Gray with you?’

Interesting how she was ‘Lady Blackdown’, but her husband was simply ‘Gray’. ‘He will be along shortly.’

‘Oh. Does he not accompany you?’ The lady’s smile seemed insultingly knowing. ‘Let me introduce you to some of my other guests.’

A trip around the room had her introduced to those she did not know, including the Swanns, both of whom seemed very pleasant and welcoming. ‘Mr Redfern and I have met before,’ she said when Swann began the introduction.

‘Good to see you again, Lady Blackdown,’ George said. ‘Where is that husband of yours?’

It seemed she was barely worth the time of day without her husband. She held on to her smile. ‘As I told Lady Standish, he was kept longer than he expected at a meeting at his club.’

‘Quite the businessman, isn’t he?’ Lady Standish said and floated away.

Florence had the feeling it wasn’t a compliment.

A butler arrived at her elbow with a silver tray and offered her refreshment of sherry and cake. She declined the sherry and took the cake.

‘Would your ladyship prefer tea?’ the butler asked.

She glanced around. No one else was drinking tea. ‘No, thank you.’

‘Not one for imbibing in the afternoon?’ George said, swapping his empty glass for a full one. ‘These at-homes are tedious enough without something to help numb the mind.’ The twinkle in those bright-blue eyes said he was teasing.

‘Then it is kind of you to attend.’

A flash of something she could not read passed across his face. ‘Must support one’s friends,’ he murmured. ‘How are you enjoying your first visit to London?’