“The viscountess,” Graham said. “You are hoping it is from Lady Danby.”
“Yes,” his father snapped on an aggrieved sigh. “I do…I hope it is from her! For it would tell me clearly she has some feelings for me that are beyond friendship and neighborly courtesy.”
“Is she the sort to send such letters?” Though the wording was innocent enough, it could be a trap by anyone of the marriage-minded ladies in attendance. Twice now, his father had almost gotten caught by a woman of dubious standards and with only greed in their hearts.
His father tugged at his cravat looking distinctly befuddled. “She is shy but comes alive within minutes of conversation. Then I see no shyness, only her good-natured charm, and vivacity for living…and blushes,” he relayed this with a bit of wonder and a smile on his lips. “Lady Danby blushes so prettily if I stare at her too long, or if I pay her the sincerest of compliments which she deserves. I am uncertain she would be this bold.”
Yet hope lingered in his voice that the lady had indeed decided to be daring.
“Why not ask the viscountess how she feels?” Graham suggested. “She is not a debutante who needs to be protected from such advances. She is a woman of sense and mature years; such a question will hardly send her running.”
A tic jerked in his father’s cheek. “I tried,” he said with a gruff voice. “She loved her husband very much. Only…she has only lost him these past five years. Whenever we speak, the viscountess always find a reason to slip him into our discourse. I admire how much she loved him, but it almost makes me believe she might not be willing or open to the idea of me courting her.”
Graham recalled the rumors which had surrounded the viscountess’s move to Gloucestershire. She was without funds, her widowed portion only enough to maintain the appearance of bare gentility. Her older daughter had her come out some years ago, which had not netted her any new connections or a match, and the younger girl had never had a Season in London. Now there was little opportunity for the viscountess to secure respectable matches for them.
The lady must be desperate for marriage into a well-connected family. Either the viscountess or her daughters would do for an earl. He glanced down at the invitation to a tryst in the conservatory once more. How far would the widowed viscountess be willing to go?
“If you wish to see for yourself, Father, go, but be mindful of the lady’s intentions.?
?
His father sighed. “I will be. Once I see that it is not Amelia…I will politely extricate myself from the situation and hope no one is around to witness what they might perceive as misconduct!”
And without a doubt, the identity of the author would be revealed, and Graham would know who to keep a close watch on, for this person would most likely be prone to more mischief for the remainder of the house party. Was his father walking into a compromising situation that might prove difficult to extricate himself from?
I’ll be damned if I ever allow that to happen!
Chapter 3
Almost thirty minutes after speaking with his father, Graham stood in the conservatory, positioned behind some large fir trees which had been cut to be decorated and placed in the drawing-room, music room, and the entrance to Holliwell Manor. Ever since they had spent Christmas in Germany with one of their uncles, his father had adopted the tradition of decorating such trees in the yuletide season. It had made his mother, who was German, thrilled, and as a family, they had continued the tradition after she had gone on to her rewards. Graham was closer to the door which opened into the garden, and from his discreet vantage point, he observed the lady who had entered moments ago.
His heart jolted, and a heavy unexpected disappointment lodged in his gut. It was Miss Callie Middleton still garbed in the bright pink dress she had worn to dinner, her hair piled in a riot of becoming curls, with several wisps dancing about her face. She was petite, the top of her head would probably brush his chin. Her skin was pale, her lips lush and sweetly curved, her figure, though slender, had more than a handful in all the right places. The lady held a basket in her hand. She rested it on a table revealing fresh-cut roses from the hothouse and a pruning shear. She rifled through the contents of the basket, and he arched a brow when she withdrew several sprigs of mistletoe.
Good God. Her intention was apparent. How many ladies had he dodged since his arrival who attempted to use those damnable mistletoe berries to request a kiss or be bold to take one? Even last night, the squire’s daughter had knocked on his door, and he had tugged her into the room after hearing footsteps in the hallway. Miss Vinnette Brampton was the sister of his close friend Thomas. Graham had been amused and appalled in equal measure at her surprising brazenness. But the girl had been suffering from a case of jealousy and heartbreak when the man she loved shifted his attention to another. After drinking several glasses of pilfered sherry and armed with a fistful of mistletoe, Miss Vinnette had planned to soothe her wounded pride with kisses from him!
Even now, the memory of her silliness had a sigh of exasperation escaping from Graham. It was befuddling how everyone seemed to accept that piece of twig was an excuse to throw caution and propriety to the wind. He wasn’t the sort to seduce his friends’ sisters, so after lending a listening ear for several minutes, he’d ensured she reached her room undiscovered.
A sharp grunt snapped his attention to Miss Middleton. She was dragging a wrought-iron chair from near the grate to the door. She hopped onto the chair and then took it a step further by balancing on the chair’s armrest. It rocked precariously, and she muttered a word no lady should know before making a soft triumphant sound. She mounted the leaves and berries above the door, and with a wide grin, jumped from the chair. Graham marveled she had not slipped. She looked up at her work and did a happy little twirl.
He felt mesmerized. Perhaps it was the sense of happiness and expectation in the air. She dragged the chair from out of the way, then strolled to the windows with a frown on her pretty face. The lady reached into the deep pockets of her dress and fished out a pocket watch. She leaned forward, almost pressing her nose against the glass. Unexpectedly she lurched upright and to his amazement clapped her hands in unmistakable glee. She rushed toward the exit that would lead her to the side gardens. The lock refused to budge, and her expression of excitement eased to annoyance. After childishly kicking the door, she hurried in his direction.
Graham stepped behind one of the fir trees. It barely hid him, and he expected her to see him right away. Instead, when she was almost on top of him, she turned and peeked around the tree. It seemed the lady, too, was hiding. His curiosity mounted. An entrance to the conservatory opened and closed with a quiet snick. Miss Middleton held her breath, impatiently tapping her feet.
“Finally,” she muttered with a content sigh when another person entered the glasshouse.
He resisted the urge to look at the newcomer, directing his complete regard on Miss Middleton.
“Lord Deerwood…I mean…Robert…I…I hoped it was you,” a very, breathless voice gasped.
There was a rustle of movement.
“Amelia, my dear, how happy I am to see you,” his father said warmly and with heavy relief in his tone. “I almost did not come and then decided to at the very last minute.”
Ah…so the lady was the viscountess. The man should be happy, indeed.
“I got your note—”
“I got your note—”