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“Don’t be. I startled you with my arrival. I’m glad I was able to catch you before you sustained an injury. How would you dance if you’d twisted your ankle?”
He made a good point. “I am grateful for your quick action. I would like to be able to dance.”
“Of course you would.” He said it as if every young woman wanted nothing more than to dance. While it was true about her, she hoped he hadn’t made other assumptions. “Have you always been fond of maps?”
“Yes, but we didn’t have very many. When I see how you live here, I confess that I wonder how our fathers were friends.”
He pivoted, resting his hip against the table as he crossed his arms. “Why is that?”
She found his gray eyes rather distracting. They seemed to possess the ability to see straight inside her, which was ridiculous. He would observe only what she wanted him to. “My father was not wealthy. He was an academic, and we lived on the support of his older brother. After my father died, my uncle took his library in exchange for a settlement for my mother. He permitted me to choose a handful of things to keep—they were all maps.”
The earl frowned. “That sounds rather unfair.”
She lifted a shoulder. “My uncle wasn’t a very caring man. I believe he saw my mother and me as a nuisance. He thought he was being kind enough by allowing us to continue to inhabit our house, which was on his estate.”
“He died recently?”
“Just before my mother passed. Thankfully, when my mother died, his son allowed me—and Mrs. Tucket, of course—to continue living there.” He’d also strongly suggested she marry, but she wouldn’t mention that for fear it would invite discussion on a topic that didn’t remotely interest her. “I was quite relieved when your father’s kind invitation for the Season arrived.” He’d apparently sent it just before he’d died, giving his son no choice but to shepherd her through a debut.
Well, she supposed the current earl could have refused and left her to rot in Bitterley. She was glad he hadn’t.
Overton uncrossed his arms. “My father didn’t tell me a thing about you until he was dying. I have no idea why our fathers were friends. He only told me they’d met at Oxford, and that, as your godfather, he’d agreed to look after you and your mother when your father died. They must have formed their friendship at Oxford. I can’t even imagine it because I can’t see my father in that way.”
“What way is that?”
It took the earl a moment to respond. When he did, he seemed uncertain. “Friendly, I suppose?”
It seemed the relationship between father and son was not close, but before she could ask about it, the butler announced the arrival of Lady Pickering.
Overton pushed away from the table. “Excellent. Please show her to the drawing room and make sure Miss Lancaster joins us.”
“And Mrs. Tucket,” Fiona said. She would not leave the beloved woman out, even if she was to have a limited role.
“Of course, yes, Mrs. Tucket.” The earl sent her a look of apology, which she appreciated.
The butler departed, and the earl offered Fiona his arm. “Shall we go upstairs?”
Fiona cast a longing look at the map.
The earl chuckled. “You may have access to the library—and the maps—whenever you choose. I’ll also have all the atlases and books with maps moved to a more accessible location. That way, you’ll be safe.” He winked at her, and once again, the warmth of embarrassment flushed through her.
She clutched his sleeve more tightly. “You have atlases? As in, several of them?”
“Yes, I believe so. I’ll dig them out later.”
She’d never felt so delighted to be anywhere in her entire life. “Thank you. Sincerely.”
He blinked, then gave her a lopsided smile. “It’s my pleasure.”
A few moments later, they entered the elegant drawing room on the first floor. Overlooking Brook Street, the rectangular room had tall windows cloaked with pale gold draperies. Several seating areas occupied the space with comfortable chaises, tables for games or refreshments, and chairs and settees for conversation. She’d first seen the room yesterday when the housekeeper had given her a tour of the house. Then and now, Fiona easily envisioned a proper London family enjoying their evenings in this room just as she saw more formal entertainments. At least, she assumed those would be commonplace. What did she really know about any of this?
“Lady Pickering, how wonderful of you to come,” Overton said as Fiona withdrew her fingertips from his arm. He strode forward to take the woman’s hand and bowed. Then he pivoted to look toward Fiona. “Allow me to present Miss Fiona Wingate.”
Lady Pickering, between fifty and sixty years with a regal bearing, stood in front of a settee. She was of average height, but the sophisticated style of her still-brown hair and the quality of her clothes made her seem imposing. Or perhaps that impression was due to the manner in which she assessed Fiona with her green-blue eyes, as if she’d seen a great manythings and possessed both the experience and character to pass judgment on anyone.
“Miss Wingate, it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance and to sponsor you for the Season.”
Fiona dropped into a deep curtsey. “I am honored by your attention and support, Lady Pickering.”