Page 4 of A Spinster’s Folly (Courting the Unconventional #2)

Lord Bedford shook his head as he offered his arm. “May I escort you into dinner?”

Eugenie hesitated for only a moment before placing her gloved hand lightly on his arm. “You may,” she said, her voice composed—though her heart was another matter entirely.

The last time she had been this close to him, he had kissed her.

The kiss.

Why, why couldn’t she get it out of her mind? It had been impulsive, reckless. So why did the memory linger, insistent, playing on an endless loop in her thoughts? The way he had held her. The way he had looked at her afterward, as if he wanted more.

She needed to stop thinking about it.

As they followed Niles and Elsbeth out of the drawing room and towards the dining hall, Lord Bedford glanced over at her. “Are you looking forward to the Season?”

Eugenie sighed. “That is a difficult question,” she admitted. “I’m looking forward to being in Town again, taking in the sights, indulging in the circulating libraries. But I am dreading the social events.”

“As am I,” Lord Bedford admitted.

She arched a brow at him. “But you are an earl.”

Lord Bedford furrowed his brow as if the thought had never occurred to him before. “And you are the daughter of an earl,” he countered. “Does that mean we were bred to enjoy social events?”

“Point taken,” Eugenie acknowledged. She was secretly pleased that—like her—he merely tolerated social events .

They stepped into the dining room and Lord Bedford moved to pull out the chair for her.

“Thank you, my lord,” she said as she lowered herself into her seat.

Lord Bedford took the seat beside her as Niles and Elsbeth settled into their own seats across from them.

Eugenie exhaled softly, forcing herself to focus on the meal ahead rather than the man sitting so close that she could feel the warmth of his presence.

This was going to be a long dinner.

Charles sat at the long, polished mahogany table in the grand dining room, the vast space echoing with the occasional clink of his silver spoon against the delicate porcelain teacup.

The morning sun poured through the tall windows, illuminating the intricate crown molding and the gilded sconces that lined the walls.

He unfolded the newssheets, scanning the printed words with practiced ease, though his mind was only half-engaged.

The estate’s affairs, the financial reports, the latest political happenings—none of it seemed to hold his attention for long.

Despite the grand setting, he was alone, or at least as alone as one could be in a house teeming with servants.

The ever-present footmen and housemaids moved silently through the corridors, attending to their morning duties with quiet efficiency.

Still, solitude was a luxury he seldom enjoyed, and this morning, he found himself yearning for something even more elusive than peace.

He missed the days of his youth, the simplicity of a life unburdened by titles, estates, and expectations.

Not that he had a right to complain. He had inherited a title, secured entailed properties, and, thanks to Mr. Stockton’s generous intervention, had the financial means to ensure the estate’s prosperity for many years to come. By all accounts, he should have been content. And yet, he wasn’t.

An image of Lady Eugenie flickered in his mind and he banished the thought. There was no reason for him to think of her. He had no intention of pursuing anyone at present and his attention needed to remain on his accounts.

His mother swept into the room. Her maroon gown emphasized her slender figure, while the morning light caught in the strands of her fading blonde hair. The fine lines on her face, deepening with time, did nothing to diminish her regal presence.

“Good morning,” she greeted.

Charles lowered the newssheets. “Not that I am complaining, but do you not usually request a tray to be sent to your bedchamber?”

“I do,” his mother replied, settling into the chair across from him. She unfolded a white linen napkin onto her lap. “But I was lonely this morning.”

The admission took him by surprise. His mother was not one to openly express sentimentality. She continued, her eyes keen as she regarded him. “How was dinner last night with Elsbeth?”

“It was eventful,” he answered, setting the newssheets aside. “Why did you not join us?”

She waved a delicate hand dismissively. “You did not need an old woman there. Besides, I wanted to finish my book.”

“You sound just like Lady Eugenie.”

A pleased smile curved her lips. “I simply adore Lady Eugenie. She reminds me so much of myself when I was younger.”

Charles shook his head. “Westcott thinks she reads entirely too much and is caught up in what he calls ‘reading mania.’”

“Is there such a thing? ”

“Apparently so,” he said, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Do you have any plans for today?”

At that, his mother straightened, a glint of excitement in her gaze. “I was invited by Elsbeth to join her sewing circle. Did you know she makes clothing for the orphans in the workhouses?”

“Yes, she has mentioned it to me a time or two,” Charles said. “Elsbeth has a good heart.”

“You should have married her when you had the chance,” his mother teased.

Charles huffed. “I was trying to do the honorable thing when I offered for her, but it was a good thing she declined.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” his mother admitted. “You two are far too similar—or should I say, stubborn.”

Folding the newssheets, Charles placed them on the table. “I am happy for Elsbeth and Westcott. They make a fine pair, and their love is evident.”

His mother’s gaze softened. “That is what I want for you.”

He frowned. “I am only five-and-twenty. I need to focus on my accounts, not the marriage mart.”

“You can do both.”

“Not well enough, if you ask me,” he said, taking a sip from his teacup. “It is a tremendous amount of pressure to be responsible for so many livelihoods.”

His mother leaned forward and patted his hand. “You are more than capable of managing the estate.”

“Only because of Mr. Stockton and his generous gift of fifteen thousand pounds,” Charles said. “Without that, I would be dealing with a nearly bankrupt estate.”

His mother’s expression grew solemn. “Mr. Stockton is a good man.”

“That he is. And it is evident that Aunt Isabella loves him very much,” Charles added. “They behave like newlyweds.”

“I am happy for Isabella,” his mother said. “She endured much at her late husband’s hand. ”

Charles nodded. “But it is over. My uncle can’t hurt her—or anyone else—anymore.”

A footman stepped forward, placing a plate before Charles’s mother. She picked up her fork and knife before asking, “What do you intend to do today?”

“I must go to Oxford to meet with the Master of University College,” Charles replied.

His mother lifted a brow. “Do you intend to earn another degree? Is your Bachelor of Arts not enough?”

Charles chuckled. “My degree is sufficient,” he replied. “I need to speak to the Master on Philip’s behalf.”

All humor left his mother’s expression. “What has Philip done now?”

“He was expelled from Oxford.”

His mother pursed her lips. “When is that boy going to learn?”

“That boy is eighteen and is my heir,” Charles said. “If I do not have my own heir, Philip will inherit my title one day.”

“I shudder at the thought.”

“As do I,” Charles admitted. “I had to call in favors to get him admitted, and he is squandering it.”

“Perhaps he might thrive at a different college,” his mother suggested. “University College is the oldest and, in my opinion, the most prestigious at Oxford.”

Before Charles could respond, the butler stepped into the room, his black hair slicked neatly to the side. “Mrs. Adam Ellsworth has come to call.”

His mother’s face lit up. “Please send her in.”

Moments later, his Aunt Phoebe entered, her brown curls bouncing with each step. She approached the table with an exasperated sigh. “I am giving Philip away. Would either of you like him?”

“I already have a child that doesn’t entirely listen to me,” his mother quipped .

Charles looked heavenward. “You love me.”

“I do,” she replied, amusement in her eyes. “But it took years to train you to ensure I liked you as well.”

Charles rose from his chair and gestured towards the empty seat across from him. “Please, Phoebe, join us for breakfast.”

A footman stepped forward without hesitation, his gloved hands carefully pulling back the chair for her. Phoebe offered a weary smile as she lowered herself onto the seat. “Thank you, Charles,” she said, her voice carrying the weight of exhaustion. “Philip was gone when I woke up this morning.”

Charles stiffened. That was not the news he had hoped to hear. “Do you know where he went?”

“I don’t,” Phoebe admitted, her lips pressing into a tight line. “But I fear he has returned to that gambling hell. With what money, I know not.”

“I will speak to him… again.” He had tried countless times to steer Philip in the right direction, but the young man refused to heed his counsel.

A footman silently approached, setting a delicate cup of rich chocolate before Phoebe. She leaned slightly to the side and reached for the cup. “His father wouldn’t have wanted this life for him,” she murmured, her gaze distant.

“No, he wouldn’t have,” his mother agreed. “But you should know, Phoebe, that you are doing the best you can under these circumstances.”

Phoebe’s shoulders sagged. “I feel like I am failing. With Philip. With everything.”

“You mustn’t think that way,” his mother asserted.

“How can I not?” Phoebe asked, her voice cracking slightly. “If Adam were still alive, he would never have let Philip act this way. He would have put him on the right path.”

Charles met her gaze. “We will get through to Philip,” he assured her, though the certainty in his voice was more for her benefit than his own .

Phoebe sighed, her fingers tightening around her cup. “I heard he was expelled from Oxford.”

“That is the rumor, yes,” Charles responded. “But I am speaking with the Master today to sort this all out.”

Phoebe’s hands trembled as she lifted the cup to her lips. “My son is a fool,” she said quietly. “I only hope he learns his lesson before he throws away his future.”

“Philip is still young,” his mother attempted.

Phoebe, however, did not look convinced. “He is old enough to fight in the war, to attend university, and even to marry,” she countered. “That is hardly a child, is it?”

“I think you need a distraction,” his mother declared. “Join me this afternoon at Elsbeth’s sewing circle. We are making clothing for the orphans in the workhouses.”

“Do you think that is wise? I might not be the best of company,” Phoebe said.

“I do,” his mother affirmed with an encouraging smile. “It will be enjoyable, and I know that Elsbeth is always looking for more people to participate.”

Phoebe still seemed unsure. “It would be nice to see Elsbeth again,” she admitted after a pause. “I haven’t seen her since she was a child.”

Before the conversation could continue, the butler stepped into the room with a silver tray in his gloved hands. “A messenger just delivered a note for you, my lord,” Hagen announced.

Charles accepted the note and carefully unfolded it, scanning the words quickly. With a quiet sigh, he crumpled the paper in his fist. “The Master of University College, Mr. Griffith, has agreed to meet with me regarding Philip’s expulsion from Oxford.”

His mother sat straighter in her chair. “That is good, is it not?”

“It is,” Charles replied, though his tone carried little enthusiasm. “But we must not get our hopes up. These matters can be difficult to reverse. That said, I promise that I will do everything in my power to get him reinstated.”

Phoebe offered him a small, appreciative smile. “I know you will, and I cannot thank you enough for your efforts.”

Charles rounded the table, coming to stand beside her. “I should go,” he said, adjusting the cuffs of his jacket. “I will send word as soon as I have spoken with Mr. Griffith.”

“I wish you luck,” his mother called after him as he strode towards the door.

As Charles reached for his top hat, he knew with certainty that luck had nothing to do with it. Mr. Griffith was a pragmatic man, one who responded only to logic and influence. Charles would have to rely on both if he hoped to change the Master’s mind.