Page 39 of Lady Dramatic
Serenity could see very well that Lord Thorpe suppressed a snort. He seemed to understand her father, which she very much appreciated, as not everybody did. She also thought her father must very much approve of Lord Thorpe, or he would not jest about his daughter being located in a dark garden with the gentleman.
The three stood together watching the Earl of Mumsby’s fireworks until the very last one faded to darkness in the night sky.
When Serenity hadarrived home from Lady Jellerbey’s candlelight picnic, she’d found that Valor was long abed and Winsome and Verity played lottery tickets with Mrs. Right. As was her sisters’ usual habit, they grilled her with questions about the evening, and about Lord Thorpe in particular.
She told them as much as she wished to, but she did not tell them everything. She did not tell them one thing. That, she would keep to herself.
Their hands had brushed. And neither of them had pulled away. She wondered if it were shocking that she’d not pulled her hand away, though, much to her surprise, she found she did not care a whit if ithadbeen shocking.
She’d almost wept there and then, so overcome was she. And of course, the majesty of the fireworks had almost set her off. She’d averted her eyes so she might more easily compose herself.
Serenity felt she’d done quite a creditable job of it too. The only problem, as Patience had pointed out, was how long could she keep it up? How long would it be before the marquess got a look at the real her? The dead bees and brushing hands and beauty of the dawn weeper, Serenity Nicolet?
What would he think? She could not bear to see the admiration fade from his eyes. He did admire her, there could be no other conclusion. She could not bear the idea that he was attracted to someone who was not quite herself, and that he might not admire her real self—the lady weeping over all and sundry.
Somehow, she was going to have to keep it up, though. She would have to toughen up. She had to remake herself into someone who would be a worthy marchioness, eventually to become a duchess. Nobody had ever heard of a weeping duchess and she thought nobody would prefer it. Certainly nobody had ever heard of a duchess who secretly kept a crypt of dead bees!
She lay in her bed, watching clouds gathering to shield the moon from view and wept over it.
*
The cold andraining morning had brought a headache of massive proportions. Charles had perhaps drunk a bit more than was his usual habit at Lady Jellerbey’s candlelight whatever thatwas supposed to be. It was Thorpe’s fault. His brother just could not resist poking him where he should not be poked.
Ever since his father had once counseled him on the idea of acquiring a moral compass while Thorpe had been on the other side of the door gleefully listening, he’d had the idea constantly thrown in his face. That particular situation of so many years ago had been ridiculous to start with. All he’d done was throw a few stones at a village boy and he’d been hauled into the library like it was a hanging offense.
His father had gone on a long diatribe about how a ducal family must lead by an example of dignity, kindness, and liberality. To fail to do so was to invite certain ideas the French had not so long ago explored. No lord lived behind high walls and moats guarded by a private army any longer. They held power not because they commanded it through force, but because it was afforded them through respect. If respect was gone, the guillotines were not so very far away. Nobody should ever be foolish enough to suppose it could not happen here, as that is just what every French nobleman who lost his head had mistakenly believed.
Charles had presumed it all nonsense. Since when was an uneducated village cur going to have the nerve to propose chopping off his head?
He winced as he was forced to remember what the uneducated village curhadfound the nerve to do. Days later, Charles had been walking through the wood to a stream to fish for trout when he’d been set upon by the uneducated village cur and two of his uneducated friends. He’d been badly beaten and then informed that if he complained to the duke, it would be put about that he was responsible for a certain dairy maid’s rather expanded condition. That would probably not have married well with the duke’s ideas of a moral compass so he’d kept quiet about it and claimed he’d been thrown from his horse. Hesuspected Thorpe knew the truth, as his brother was always so friendly with the uneducated village curs.
Thorpe’s barbs last evening had caused him to indulge too heavily. The factor that really sent him over the edge was when he’d looked all over Lady Jellerbey’s rooms for Lady Serenity, hoping she’d since separated herself from his brother. He’d finally found her out in the back garden. She, her father, and Thorpe were watching Lord Mumsby’s rather tepid fireworks display. He could not avoid noticing that Thorpe and Lady Serenity were standing closer than would be socially acceptable.
Thorpe was getting ahead of him. How was he doing it? Was it the ridiculous dog walks?
Perhaps he ought to borrow a dog from someone and turn up for one of these dog walks. He would weigh that idea, but one idea did not need to be weighed. Thorpe was holding a dinner, an early dinner for Lady Violet or Valor or Vera. He did not need to debate if he would attendthat, as of course he would. Let Thorpe attempt to bar the door against him if he would try it. It was his door too, and Thorpe was not yet the duke. Thorpe was just the son of a duke, as he was himself.
In the meantime, he’d spend the day holding a cold compress to his forehead, wondering who he might have offended last evening.
*
Mrs. Right hadspent the morning in the drawing room, attempting to cheer up everybody in it. The rain was pouring down in buckets out of doors and not even the most cheerful sort of person could name it only a misting. The dog walking was off for that morning, at least.
Of all of them, Valor was the least affected and seemed to take the dousing rain as a definitive comment on Lord Thorpe and his dog-walking ideas.
Thomas had brought in a tea tray and Mrs. Right could see very well that Cook had gone to an extra effort. The miniature apple cakes were in abundance, along with the usual almond biscuits with the duke’s stamp on them.
“Now girls, remember what we have always done in bad weather when we are in the Dales,” she said.
Valor whispered the idea to Mrs. Wendover. She had so far managed to keep hold of her stuffed rabbit for the past few days, though Nelson rolled on his back and looked at it longingly.
“We can sometimes be very cozy when it rains in the Dales,” Winsome said. “We should all find books in the library as we do there.”
“Winsome can read from one of them,” Verity said.
“Why must I always read, though?” Winsome asked. “Why do not you take a turn at it?”
Verity looked out the window and said, “You have the better voice for it, as everybody knows.”
