Page 9 of The Wallflower Takes All

“Mama,” Miss Montfort said, her voice faint with mortification.

“What? I have eyes. Must widowhood rob me of those as well?”

Gabriel bowed. “Lady Montague.”

“You are Mr. Ashby’s son?” Lady Viva held out a hand, all theatrical welcome and bright curiosity. “Come closer, darling. I wish to see whether you have his nose.”

Gabriel obeyed because refusing would be rude, and because, despite every instinct he possessed, he found himself curious.

Lady Viva studied him for a few seconds. “You do not. A pity. His nose made him look trustworthy.”

“His integrity did that, I believe,” Gabriel said, clearing his throat.

Her smile deepened. “Oh, very good. Grave, but not dull. That is rarer than one hopes.”

Miss Montfort made a small sound. Gabriel could not tell whether it was embarrassment or amusement. “Mr. Ashby has come about the ledgers,” she said.

Lady Viva sighed and leaned back. “Ledgers. How dreary. I have long believed numbers are simply rumors written by men with poor imaginations.”

A pale man draped along the far end of a sofa lifted one hand. “I have often said the same of mortality.”

“No, you haven’t,” Miss Montfort said.

“No,” he agreed, after a moment. “But I might have, had I not been so weak.”

Gabriel looked at him.

Miss Montfort followed his gaze. “Mr. Loxley is a poet.”

“Ah.”

“And dying,” Mr. Loxley added.

“Not today,” Miss Montfort said.

“One cannot know,” Lady Viva added.

“One can strongly suspect,” Miss Montfort replied.

Gabriel lowered his gaze to hide the expression that threatened his composure.

This place was every bit as nonsensical as he’d expected. His father had loved this house. Sense had never been its charm. Order had never stood a chance. Every room seemed to be bursting with life, noise, and feeling, all of it pressing against the careful walls Gabriel had spent years building inside himself. It was the sort of place that invited a man to care against his will, if he were foolish enough to step too far inside.

Gabriel had no intention of being foolish.

Lady Viva waved vaguely toward a chair. “Sit, Mr. Ashby, darling. Have champagne. Or coffee. Or whatever Poppy has decided I am permitted to drink this morning.”

“You are permitted coffee,” Miss Montfort said.

“See?” Lady Viva gave Gabriel a mournful look. “Tyranny.”

“Coffee will do,” Gabriel replied.

“Coffee is oppressive,” Lady Viva replied with a sigh.

Miss Montfort crossed to the small table beside her mother and removed the champagne flute with swift, practiced grace. Lady Viva let it go, but not without another sigh of operatic proportions.

Gabriel watched the movement. There was nothing sharp in Miss Montfort’s manner. No visible resentment. She did not scold like a governess or plead like a child. She simply redirected…smoothed…managed.