The Cheer in Charming an Earl(9)
Lord Steepleton’s arms were still crossed over his wiry frame. “Where we go is irrelevant. The real question is: why does Chelford want us to leave?”
“Yes, Chelford,” de Winter drawled unhelpfully, “has our company gone stale?”
“You know it has,” Grantham replied through his teeth. Then he opened his arms to the room. “The fact is my kitchens won’t be repaired for weeks. It will be a terrible inconvenience to you to lack hot meals. Is it stew you want? Gruel? Mrs. Calloway is known for a mean porridge. Truly, I have nothing to offer you but slops and cereals.”
Lord Steepleton narrowed his eyes. “Whose carriage crashed? I think that is the question we ought to be asking.”
Mariah perked up. As did Becky, who twirled one of her blonde curls thoughtfully. “Indeed, it seems as though we’re being displaced by a mystery person. If it were a man, wouldn’t he simply be welcome to join our numbers?” She leaned toward Mariah, placing her hand on Mr. Tewseybury’s knee as she did so. “It must be a lady.”
“She’s not a lady,” Grantham bit out before he could stop himself. He hadn’t meant to give away her sex at all. “She is respectable, however, and I won’t be the one to ruin her reputation. For all I know, she’s the vicar’s daughter. I don’t want her fall from grace on my head.”
Given her resemblance to an angel, he wouldn’t be surprised, really, if she were the vicar’s daughter. He’d never set foot inside the nearby church, so how was he to know?
Scotherby and Steepleton shivered at the idea of such innocence among them. Then Steepleton went to the sideboard and began pouring fresh snifters of brandy for everyone. “In any case, it seems much more reasonable for you to remove her from the premises, rather than us,” he observed without turning from his task. “There is only one of her.”
Tewsey leaned to look at Steepleton over the back of the couch. “Perhaps Chelford doesn’t want her gone.” He glanced at Grantham. “You’re what, almost thirty years of age? Time to take a wife.”
It was the Cyprians’ turn to shiver. Strangely, Grantham didn’t. As recently as an hour ago, he hadn’t intended to put an end to his bachelor status anytime soon. But Miss Conley…
She was in his protective care, was what she was. Not ripe for the picking.
Mariah pretended to examine her long fingernails. “Chelford can’t marry yet. I haven’t tupped him.”
Everyone tittered except Grantham and Scotherby. “If you want to court the mystery woman,” her protector said to Grantham, “don’t do it under your roof. If you woo her and then find you don’t suit, she’ll already have unpacked her trunks and made herself quite comfortable. How will you show her the underside of your boot then?”
Grantham put up his palms to stop his friend right there. “I can’t make her leave. She’s wounded, you pretty sots, and it’s snowing. She’s not a succubus. I’m not hiding her identity from you. If anything, I’m hiding you from her.” Although, now that he considered it, it really wouldn’t do for them to know her name. They might spread it about Town, and where would Miss Conley be then?
Scotherby appeared offended. “I have nothing to be ashamed of. And Mariah, well, Mrs. Fawcett is a widow. Aren’t you?”
She smiled slyly. “I am whatever my lord desires me to be.”
Grantham tried not to picture that little masquerade too thoroughly. “You can’t claim you are all respectable.” The three Cyprians whose names escaped him looked particularly indecent. Becky Bennett had once been a schoolteacher, and continued to look the part. But the others…
He was certain he could see the blonde’s nipple from here.
“Isn’t it Christmas Eve?” that woman said. “I feel sad for her being sealed away on this night, of all nights. Is that what you mean to do to her? Keep her locked in? Poor thing.”
“Yes, be a sport, Chelford,” de Winter murmured behind him. “It’s Christmas.”
Grantham spun around. “You know she can’t be seen here. By them.”
De Winter lifted a brow. “They’ll seek her out on their own. Then what will you do?”
Blast these meddlesome friends of his. Grantham turned on his heel. “Is this what you want?” he asked them. “To give up your party in favor of pretending to be the reputable creatures you aren’t? Because I won’t present her to a bunch of lightskirts and dissolutes.”
His friends traded looks of intrigue. The dark-haired Cyprian who’d so far kept silent shrugged. “Secret flirtations, stolen kisses, concealed identities… It does sound delicious.”