Page 45 of His One and Only Lady
“La, child. I have eyes in my head.” Her ladyship chuckled, sending the bevy of cerulean-blue, gold, and Pompeian-red feathers in her coiffeur trembling. “You cannot take yours off him, and he, alas, is no better than you.”
Heat prickled Purity’s cheeks.
She refused to ask which him the countess referred to.
She hadn’t been staring at Theran.
Had she?
“I’m sure you are mistaken, my lady.”
Why, Purity managed to sound quite normal. In no way did she give away the bevy of butterflies that had taken to flight in her stomach.
The very idea. It was preposterous. Ludicrous. Nonsensical twaddle.
Theran staring at her, indeed.
Only, Lady Mumford wasn’t the flibbertigibbet, whimsical sort.
An amused smile bending her mouth and an arch eyebrow raised high on her forehead, her ladyship looped her hand through Purity’s bent elbow and guided her toward a tent erected over several chairs and tables.
“We have at least thirty minutes for you to convince me of that, my dear.”
I’m sure you understand the delicacy of the situation, as do I. I have no wish to impose further distress upon you. I believe it would be convenient for everyone if you simply forwarded Miss Mayfield’s correspondence and possessions to Mottford Hall until such time as she has a permanent address.
Might I also suggest you inform your staff of the need for circumspection to ensure the delivery of Miss Mayfield’s posts?
~Melvelia Hawtrey, Countess of Mumford,
in a discreet note to Odelia Bardslay, Viscountess Ceddes,
before she departed from Mottford Hall
Mottsford Hall Greens
Twenty minutes later
Having bathed and donned dry clothing with alacrity he didn’t want to examine, Theran trotted down the terrace steps. It had been a long while since anticipation had thrummed through his veins. It had nothing to do with Bernadine’s new governess, he sternly told himself.
Winning the boat race contributed to his enthusiasm, as well as an eagerness to sample the scrumptious food spread upon half a dozen tables. Nothing like a bit of physical exertion to whet one’s appetite.
Plus, an excursion was planned to the ancient abbey on the estate’s far side, past the woods this afternoon. The crumbling twelfth-century ruins, still majestic centuries later, never ceased to intrigue. Theran’s fascination with historical architecture came only second to his interest in agriculture. As a younger son, he’d been permitted the freedom to pursue his interests. Many—most—people were not so fortunate.
Coattails flapping, Theran strode across the lawn. He took in the guests playing shuttlecock or pall mall, strolling the rolling lawns, or enjoying the feast under one of several tents. A few had taken advantage of the boats, and gentlemen languidly rowed across the lake, a lady with her parasol in the bow.
Aunt Melvelia was famous far and wide for her picnics. Even neighbors who weren’t staying at the house had accepted the invitation.
No sign of Everingham or Hemsworth yet. Those rogues were probably sipping brandy while lolling in a warm bath with suds to their chins.
He spotted Bernadine on a blanket with Forsythia and Delphine, along with three other teenage girls. They chatted gaily as they ate, frequently giggling at some witticism or other. Amaryllis and her friends sat in chairs a few feet away, evidently too grown-up for sitting on a blanket anymore.
Where was Purity?
Since when had Theran begun thinking of her by her given name?
He must keep their arrangement strictly business. To do otherwise could lend itself to a myriad of complications.
As he maneuvered through guests, he returned nods of greeting and acknowledged congratulations. For the first time in a long while, he became aware of the subtle, coy invitations sent in his direction by ladies interested in a romantic interlude: A tongue trailed across a lower lip. A hand casually brushed over a full bosom. A sultry-eyed wink. A brazen stare at his nether regions followed by a vixen’s smile.
