Marion, after noting that her charge was quite satisfactorily settled between her father and grandmother on a sofa not too far from the fireplace, slipped into a darkened corner, as was appropriate for a governess. She would have brought her dress to work on if she hadn’t given up the entire enterprise two days earlier. Being the loveliest dressed person in the nursery, especially considering she was likely to be the only person in the nursery during the wedding, no longer held any appeal for her. Instead, she sat on a straight-backed chair near a planted fern and watched the stars twinkling outside a tall, diamond-paned window.
Nearly three quarters of an hour passed this way. Marion lost herself enough in memories of earlier days and happier years to render herself almost deaf to the merriment around her, almost oblivious enough to keep her own discouragement at bay.
Marion closed her eyes, quite tired of gazing at the stars as if they would offer balm to her wounded heart and shattered pride. I assure you that won’t happen again. She’d been entirely unable to rid her mind of Layton’s words or his tone when he’d said them. She still couldn’t manage to think of him as Mr. Jonquil, though she would never address him as anything but. There had been a time when she might have reasonably hoped to be given that right without being labeled presumptuous. Her situation had not always been so lowly.
She heard footsteps approaching from behind, coming to a stop not far distant. A governess was not part of such gatherings, so she kept herself still and hidden in the shadows. She would be overlooked, as she was supposed to be, and the guests would hold their conversations without realizing she was even there.
“Your description of Layton’s transformation led me to believe I’d find him back to his old self,” one of the nearby guests said to another, as if trying to prevent his being overheard. Apparently, Marion had played her role well—she was entirely unnoticed and forgotten.
“I shouldn’t have worn the lemon-yellow waistcoat,” Lord Lampton replied in his instantly recognizable drawl. “Most likely, he’s brooding in a fit of jealousy.”
“Really, Philip,” the first voice chided. “Can’t you be serious for one moment?”
Marion opened her eyes again and looked in the direction of the voices. Lord Lampton and Lord Cavratt stood facing one another, Lady Cavratt on her husband’s arm. Marion didn’t move, didn’t make a sound, but listened.
“Aside from the elegance of your waistcoat,” Lady Cavratt intervened, “what do you suppose is weighing so heavily on your brother?”
“The exquisite cut of my jacket?” Lord Lampton suggested, preening himself a bit.
Marion watched Lord Cavratt’s lips twitch in spite of himself.
“Let us overlook the splendor of your wardrobe,” Lady Cavratt suggested.
“Impossible, m’dear.” Lord Lampton waved his quizzing glass as if to swat away the inconceivable suggestion.
“How soon does Sorrel arrive?” Lord Cavratt asked as if she couldn’t appear too soon.
“Friday.” A slow, besotted smile spread across Lord Lampton’s usually mocking face.
“Good,” Lord Cavratt answered shortly. “By this time next week, she will have conveniently shoved that ridiculous quizzing glass—”
“Crispin!” Lady Cavratt cut him off.
Lord Lampton spluttered back a laugh. Lord Cavratt smiled as if he would very much like to laugh along. An interesting pair, those two: one who apparently affected to be a frippery sort and the other who went to great lengths to appear dour.
“I believe we are supposed to be plotting against your brother Philip,” Lady Cavratt reminded the earl with a smile.
“‘Plotting against?’ You know, Catherine, there was a time when I thought you timid and impressionable,” Lord Lampton replied with a chuckle and a little less of his usual idiotic overtones.
“And there was a time, Philip, when I thought you vain, careless, and not terribly intelligent,” she quickly countered.
For this speech, Lord Cavratt kissed his wife gently on her blushing cheek, earning a smile from Lord Lampton. Lord Cavratt’s arm settled around his wife’s waist, but his eyes focused on Lord Lampton. “So what happened, do you think? With Layton, I mean?”
“I’m honestly not sure. Though I am told I am not terribly intelligent.” He bowed slightly to Lady Cavratt, who blushed deeper and leaned her head against her husband’s shoulder. “I assure you, he was in rare form Friday last. He smiled regularly. Laughed. Seemed much more the Layton we knew growing up. I thought he’d finally turned a corner, was getting past whatever has weighed him down all these years. Perhaps it was just my new dancing slippers—I was wearing them that evening, I should confess.”