The Cheer in Charming an Earl(13)
“Precisely my thought,” Mariah drawled. “Like a breath of fresh air.”
Lord Scotherby approached Miss Conley and gave her a courtly bow. “Lord Scotherby here. Glad to see we’ve been spared both your demise and the forfeiture of our dinner.”
She smiled and curtseyed back. “That makes two of us, my lord.”
Mr. Tewseybury came forward next. “Edward Tewseybury, of nowhere in particular. A pleasure to meet you. Tell me, are you one of the Pearson girls?”
She shook her head. “My family name is—”
“Tewsey, none of that,” Grantham cut in. He turned to her and softened his expression. “You’ve no chaperone. Should word of your being here escape, I might find my skull flattened between a hammer and an anvil.”
She paled enough to make him think she wouldn’t risk his head on purpose. “I’ll just be Miss Pearson, then.”
“Good.” He offered his arm to her so that he might escort her around to meet the women. As he’d expected, Mariah and Becky did their best to make her uncomfortable, he forgot the two middle girls’ names, and “Cousin Fanny” rattled off some unintelligible cockney greeting that Miss Conley politely smiled through.
When he had her alone again, he leaned in so he wouldn’t be overheard. “I’d excuse their oddness by saying they’re kindhearted people, but I’m afraid that doesn’t apply in this case. Are you overwhelmed?”
Her eyes shined up at him. “I’ve never met such fine ladies before. And you gentlemen! So handsome, I feel prettier just standing next to you.”
“You are. Quite pretty, actually.” He bit his tongue and turned away. Fell right into that trap, hadn’t he?
She ducked her head, and he couldn’t help but be enthralled by the way her ivory skin glowed beneath the candlelight. He’d guessed correctly about her bosom. It pressed against the tight, low bodice of her gown and—
A quick glance around the room confirmed what he’d just realized. She was the only woman with a plunging neckline. In fact, now that he looked closer, his Cyprian friends had overdone their fichus into comical billows that vied with the starched waterfall cravats the men sported.
He coughed into the side of one fist and tried not to stare at the brimming décolletage of Miss Conley’s otherwise proper frock. There was nothing he could do about it. He couldn’t very well call out her nakedness whilst maintaining his reputation as a gentleman. Miss Conley, would you mind very much putting those away?
A commotion by the door rescued him from needing to say anything at all. “Kiss her,” Steepleton directed Lord Scotherby, pointing at Cousin Fanny. “Mariah—that is, Mrs. Fawcett—will understand.”
Mariah troubled herself to glance over her shoulder. She instantly dismissed the sight of her paramour and Cousin Fanny pressed together in the doorframe, preferring to slide her eyes in cat-like fascination toward Grantham. “Christmas cheer comes once a year,” she drawled, “and I have my sights set on Chelford.”
Chapter Five
ELINOR COULD barely control her excitement as she walked through the long, wainscoted hallway on Grantham’s arm. Sconces burned brightly every few feet, casting more than enough light to reflect off Mrs. Fawcett’s emerald silk gown and catch in Miss Bennett’s lustrous crown of curls. Elinor had never dreamed of such splendidly turned-out ladies. Even Cousin Fanny, with her funny cockney phrases, swayed serenely on Lord de Winter’s arm.
They were all a delight, and she was enchanted. “How do you know them?” she asked Grantham. But then, wasn’t that a silly question? He’d been born into their glittering, haughty world.
“I should have expected you to ask that. Curious little thing, aren’t you?”
She eyed him from beneath her lashes. “It’s just that I’ve never seen such grandeur as their gowns. Was Mrs. Fawcett’s husband terribly rich?”
“Mrs. Fawcett has her own money. Not that we should speak of such things.” He slanted a glance at Elinor.
Her face heated. Of course it was ill-mannered to speculate on a dead man’s fortune. Or anyone’s fortune.
Suddenly she remembered Grantham had twenty thousand a year. Good heavens. Given her indelicate interest in Mrs. Fawcett’s wealth, he could easily suspect her to be a fortune hunter, when in truth she’d had no idea of his riches until today.
“I envy Mrs. Fawcett, then,” Elinor said with a wistful sigh, attempting to refashion Grantham’s opinion of her character. “Secure in her own means, no one can ever call her an opportunist.”