Lord Denham sidled next to Lara as she took her place near the end of the line and whispered, “You continue to surprise me with your skill, Miss Bennett. No doubt you would beat me at cards if I were brave enough to join you at the table.”
Lara smiled at the compliment. “You forget I have spent eight years living with Montague Forsyth. If you wish to wager with me, my lord, be aware that I could take everything you own.”
It was his turn to smile. “Observe this game with a keen eye, Miss Bennett. One never knows when one might stumble upon a clue.” And then he moved to join the other men in the hall.
Lord Flanders went first. The gentleman seemed pleased to kiss any woman apt to show him her cheek. His slippery lips lingered for far too long, and when it was Lara’s turn, he whispered, “I have a question to ask you once the weekend is through.”
Lord Denham muttered under his breath. He gave a frustrated sigh when the viscount stepped forward to take his turn.
Lord Northcott made an innocent kiss look like a prelude to something far more sinful. Except when giving his sister a quick peck. With Lara, he captured her hand, stroked his thumb seductively across her palm and whispered, “You know where my room is if you have the energy for a bit of sport, Miss Bennett.”
When it came to Miss Venables’ turn to accept a kiss from the viscount, the lady stepped so close she almost trod on his shoes. The vixen arched her back, an exaggerated display to best show off the swell of her large breasts. The viscount maintained an air of indifference much to the lady’s annoyance.
“I might be the hired help, but never forget I am a gentleman’s daughter,” Miss Venables mumbled before rejoining the queue for those wishing to receive a kiss from Lord Denham.
Lord Denham kissed his mother first. He cupped her cheek, said something about his only wish for Christmas was that she might be happy. Next, Miss Pardue insisted on kissing the earl’s cheek, too, for why should a man always dominate? Miss Harper’s hands weaved their way up his chest, and the earl was forced to clutch her wrists to stop them venturing any further.
When it came to Lara, he stared at her for the longest time. Then he took hold of her hand, pressed something into her palm and kissed her cheek. The sudden rush of excitement sent her heart skipping to her throat. “You hold me spellbound, Miss Bennett.” His hot breath breezed over her face. His velvet voice sent tingles shooting to her toes.
Lara wasn’t sure if her legs would support her weight as she returned to the room, such were the dizzying effects of feeling his mouth on her skin. As she rejoined the guests, she grew more aware of the tiny object hidden in her clenched fist. She glanced down and dared to peek at the perfect white berry. A symbol of hope and peace, some said. A symbol of love and fertility Montague said every year when a footman took to hanging the sprig. In this case, a token of Lord Denham’s respect and admiration.
Her heart fluttered like a bird in her breast, fanning the flames of desire. As if the pounding pulse in her neck wasn’t enough to contend with, the thud of the iron knocker hitting the front door raised it another notch.
Lara clutched the berry, ignored Miss Harper’s irate sneer and focused her attention on the men standing in the hall. She knew what was coming, but time slowed. The hum of conversation faded while she waited for Lord Montague Forsyth to make an appearance.
Crudging approached Lord Denham, whose gaze was fixed to the front door. The earl turned his attention to her next, and she thought she saw disappointment pass fleetingly over his features. The fear that Montague might let slip some part of the plan dulled Lara’s senses.
“Who is it, Hugo?” Lady Denham called from her seat on the sofa. The matron stood. “Is it the vicar? Are we able to travel to the village and attend the church service?”
Lara watched the earl bow to someone they could not see. He spoke and gestured towards the drawing room. “No, Mother. Lord Forsyth has come to enquire after Miss Bennett.”
And with that, Lady Denham swooned.
Chapter Seven
“Might I be of some assistance, Denham?” Lord Forsyth strode towards the sofa with the suave sophistication of a much younger man. His athletic physique and lively manner belied his growing years. He touched his granddaughter affectionately on the cheek as he passed and said, “I cannot tell you how relieved I am to see you safe and well.”
Envy—the most wicked of vices—reared its head when Miss Bennett’s beguiling eyes swam with warmth and affection for the gentleman.
Hugo considered his mother stretched out on the sofa, a bolster cushion supporting her head. “Were it not for the despicable weather, I would send for a physician.” Upon Miss Bennett’s insistence, the other guests had retired to the family’s private sitting room overlooking the gardens.
“The countess doesn’t need a physician.” Forsyth flicked the tails of his immaculate dark blue coat and crouched at the lady’s side. “She’s had a fright, and who can blame her. No doubt she never expected our paths to cross again.”
“Crudging has gone for water.” Miss Bennett bit down on her bottom lip. She appeared less confident now Lord Forsyth had arrived. Perhaps her uncertainty stemmed from the shock of seeing the gentleman, who had somehow managed to travel from Chippenham to Upavon without assista
nce from the cavalry.
“A nip of brandy should suffice.” Lord Forsyth smoothed his hand down his grey hair—tied at the nape with black ribbon—and considered the patient.
“We tried that last time but to no avail,” Miss Bennett said, smiling weakly through pursed lips when Hugo met her gaze.
“The brandy is for me, not Penelope,” Forsyth said. “The woman will curse me to the devil when she wakes.”
“You’ve met before.” It was a statement of fact. The lord seemed too familiar when dealing with the countess. “And not merely to pass pleasantries.”
Forsyth captured the lady’s hand and patted it gently. “We courted for six months before she married your father. I have not seen her for over forty years.”
Penelope had used the word seducer when referring to the gentleman. Was this fellow the reason she’d spent her life lonely and dejected? Had Montague Forsyth stolen something other than his mother’s heart? Was that why she’d had no choice but to marry Bartholomew de Wold?