Page 10 of Entwined By Error (Madcaps of Mayfair #1)

“Such a short courtship surely cannot produce the tenderness I see in the way you look upon Southwood.”

“I assure, my lady, I hold him in the highest regard.”

“Regard is very different from love.”

“Oh, but I do love him.” Myra placed a hand over her heart as it sped up in response to her declaration. “I know it is not appropriate to share such confidences, but you are his mother and can hardly fault me for feeling so deeply.”

“Yes, but perhaps there is another man within the ton who could be a more suitable match? A man who will cherish you as you deserve.”

Myra reared backward, hoping she had misunderstood the countess. “Surely you do not wish for me to end my courtship with Lord Southwood?”

The countess patted Myra’s clasped hands. “You deserve far better than Southwood, Miss Astley. I only want your eyes to be fully open before you accept any offers from my eldest son.”

“I feel as though I know him already. He is the gentlest of souls and would never behave disagreeably.”

“I fear you have already decided upon my son. Set your cap for him?”

Taken aback, Myra lifted her hand to twirl a finger around one of her stray locks. It was all very confusing. Did not the countess know the reason for her visit? “I most certainly have, my lady.”

Before Myra could gather her composure, the countess stood. “Then allow me to apologize for my assumptions. You have had a long journey; you must be exhausted. Please, take the afternoon to rest.”

Myra nodded, confused at the pleasant smile and the gentle way the countess led her back to the door, where the same lady’s maid waited to escort her back to her bedchamber.

Once she was back in her room, Myra allowed her maid to help her out of her dress once more.

Although she didn’t sleep, Myra lay on the bed with her eyes closed as she considered the very short and extremely cryptic visit she’d had with the countess.

Perhaps she had misunderstood, but it certainly seemed like the viscount’s mother did not approve of this little visit and the possibility of an engagement.

* * *

Dressing with the greatest of care, Myra checked her coiffure, smoothed down the front of her newest pink silk gown, and then joined her sisters so they could walk together into the drawing room.

Although their parents hadn’t allowed all her sisters out in Society, they were allowed to join the supper party.

Nervously, Myra considered all that was weighing in the balance with her family.

If she found herself engaged by the end of this little visit, Rose would be allowed a debut.

But if she did as the countess had requested, Rose would have to wait another year or possibly two before entering Society.

It hardly seemed fair to keep all the girls out of Society—the youngest, Esther, being fifteen years of age—but their mother had thought it best, and no one had argued the point. At the age of three-and-twenty, Myra was decidedly ready to make a match.

Walking arm and arm with her sisters, Juliana on one side and Cecilia on the other, they stepped into the large drawing room.

The countess had outdone herself; at least a hundred candles lit the room, covering every surface.

A large mirror hung over the mantel, drawing her attention across the room to find Mr. Northcott standing in front of it as he spoke with a man she did not know.

Mr. Northcott stood with an effortless command, as though the room had been built around him. He was tall, his posture just shy of rigid, as if he had long since grown weary of the conversation but was too kind to interrupt the man who was incessantly speaking.

She tried not to stare at him, intrigued as she was with the surety of his person.

She couldn’t figure out what it was about him that made her think he was more fitting for the title of viscount than his elder brother.

Perhaps it was the clench of his jaw that held her spellbound—she wasn’t certain.

Shaking her head, she looked away from the man who simultaneously intrigued her and made her weary.

Her gaze swept the room until she found Lord Southwood.

He stood in the corner, speaking with the earl.

The contrast between Mr. Northcott and Lord Southwood was stark.

Perhaps it was their posture—one tall and confident, while the other slouched, his head bent.

One with a precisely tied cravat, the other tugging at his cravat as he squirmed under the scrutiny of his father.

“Myra?” Juliana asked as she tugged on her arm.

“Pardon me?” Myra’s head slowly turned to meet her sister’s watchful gaze.

Juliana laughed. “Are you certain it is Lord Southwood you wish to marry?”

Shaking her head to clear her thoughts, Myra’s eyes went wide as she considered her sister’s words. “Of course, what would make you think otherwise?”

“Perhaps it is the way you are drinking in Mr. Northcott’s dark, unruly hair that looks like he just walked in from the seaside.”

Myra allowed herself one more look. And then quickly turned away as Mr. Northcott’s keen, watchful deep-blue eyes flickered toward her, taking in her presence and then, after a slight smile of acknowledgement, looked back at the man standing before him.

Heat rushed into her cheeks as her stomach fluttered. Turning around, she looked at the wall until the fluttering had calmed and she had regained her composure. Realizing her sister was waiting for an answer, she calmly replied, “He is handsome, but not as grand and wonderful as Lord Southwood.”

“If you are certain…”

“I am.”

As Myra turned back to the room at large, she smiled as Lady Hastings approached. “My dear Miss Astley, you are a sight to behold.” Dipping into a curtsy, Myra allowed the countess to take her hands. “Now that you girls are here, we shall go into supper.”

Myra gladly accepted Lord Southwood’s arm as they walked through to the dining room, which was more dimly lit than the last. Candles burned low in the silver candelabras, casting shadows over the white-linen table coverings.

The scent of roast duck and orange cloves lingered in the air, making her mouth water in anticipation.

She smiled up at Lord Southwood as he assisted her with her chair, then she looked to the left to see who had been seated on her other side to find Mr. Northcott.

There was no reason for her to dislike the poor man. The only things she knew about him were the tales Lord Southwood had shared, which were enough to make her believe he wasn’t worthy of her notice. A man who was jealous of his brother must be a very miserable person indeed.

Mr. Northcott sat, dipping his head to her. “Miss Astley.”

She nervously fumbled with her napkin as she placed it on her lap. “Mr. Northcott, how lovely to see you this evening.”

“I do hope Northcott Castle meets your expectations.”

“Very much, sir.”

Myra turned back to Lord Southwood as he settled on her other side.

She loved the way his blond hair fell around his eyes.

Once they were married, she planned to assist him by brushing it back, but for now, she would admire the flick of his head and the way he blew upward each time it happened as he willed his hair to move out of his eyes.

When that inevitably didn’t work, he would lazily brush his hair aside, forcing it back into place.

This time, as he blew at his hair, Myra felt an air of annoyance at the action.

Blowing at his hair had never worked before; what made him think it would now?

She was contemplating the surge of frustration surrounding Lord Southwood when the earl, who was sitting at the end of the table next to his son, narrowed his eyes.

“Does your valet not know how to give a proper haircut?”

Southwood laughed. “I shall speak with him once I return from London.”

“You are not to leave Northcott Castle.”

Leaning forward, Southwood whispered, yet his words carried to where Myra sat. “I have business to see to.”

“I know what your business is, and it is a fool’s errand. You will remain at the castle with your guests. I will accept no refusals.”

Southwood sat back, folding his arms as he stared at his empty plate. Myra wanted to calm him, share in his frustrations, but there was a glint of anger sparking in his eyes that made her turn away.

Focusing on her empty plate, she was surprised when Mr. Northcott spoke. “Might I assist you, Miss Astley?”

“I would be much obliged, sir.”

The footman standing between them held a tray out, and Mr. Northcott dished broth into a small bowl before placing it on the table. Once it was done, Mr. Northcott did the same for his supper partner, Juliana.

When she noticed Southwood wave the footman away, Myra asked, “My lord, will you not eat?”

“I am not hungry.”

“Oh.” Myra turned back to her soup. She ate a little of it before sitting back to wait for the next round.

Before arriving at Northcott Castle, Myra had imagined days filled with laughter and evenings falling in love as she and Lord Southwood enjoyed each other’s company.

Now, with his sullen mood, she was certain this night would be dreadful.

There would be no stolen glances taking her breath away, not with the frown that was deepening into rage.

This was the first time she’d ever witnessed this sort of behavior from Lord Southwood. Their courtship had been quick, filled with parties, rides in Hyde Park, and trips to the theater. Now, it seemed she was seeing a side of him that he had held deep inside.

Her hands shaking, Myra placed her spoon on the table and allowed the footman to clear her plate away before the next round arrived. As the footman stopped between her and Lord Southwood, he waved the man off again.

Holding back her tears, Myra allowed Mr. Northcott to prepare her plate with roasted duck and orange sauce. She thanked him and then proceeded to pick at her food, eating not a morsel as the earl and Lord Southwood began speaking once more.

“My decision is unchanged, Father. I will leave for London early on the morrow and return before supper.”

The Earl of Hastings attacked his food, his knife scraping against the plate as though the duck had done him harm. His voice lowered, barely loud enough for Myra to hear. “And lose what little self-respect you have in the gambling hells? I will not have it, Southwood. You are to remain here.”

Myra’s appetite vanished completely as she was certain the earl had mentioned a gambling hell. Certainly, he had been wrong. Lord Southwood could not be so cruel as to leave her at Northcott Castle with his family so he could gamble.

“I have no intention of spending my time in a musty gambling hell, Father.”

Relief instantly flooded over her as her stomach grumbled. The earl was clearly making a judgement against his son, one that was wrong. Lifting her fork and knife, Myra cut a morsel of meat away as the earl whispered, a bit more loudly this time.

“Where will this business of yours take place, then? A racetrack?”

Southwood turned to look at her. The wild anger in his eyes made her fork stall mid-air as she waited for him to deny the accusation.

He immediately did so, placing a calming hand on her arm.

“My business has nothing to do with wagers. I have an old friend from Cambridge who has requested my help. I cannot ignore a friend in need.”

As Southwood turned back to his father, his face hardened once more as he clenched his jaw. The earl met the anger, both fighting a silent battle.

“My guests are just that. I am not yet in chains, Father.”

Chains. Myra’s head spun at the insinuation. It bothered her that Lord Southwood could look at her with such tenderness and then turn around and say such awful things in reference to a possible marriage. Her lower lip trembled as she placed her fork and knife upon the table once more.

The one solace she had as she sat between Lord Southwood and Mr. Northcott was that the conversation next to her was quiet enough that no one in the room could hear the argument.

None of the other guests knew the trouble brewing at her end of the table—no one except the Countess of Hastings, who watched the entire affair from the opposite end of the room, her face pale as she compassionately smiled at Myra almost as though she were attempting to communicate a silent apology.

As the dishes were cleared away for the next round, Mr. Northcott leaned toward her. “Was the duck not to your liking?”

“I am not hungry, sir.”

“No?” He looked to his father and brother and then back to her. “A lost appetite, I assume?”

She nodded solemnly, valiantly attempting to still the quiver in her bottom lip. When biting down failed to quell the trembling, she lifted her hand, but as she did so, a footman leaned forward with a tray of tipsy cake, flames blazing from it with the enthusiasm of a Guy Fawkes bonfire.

Her hand collided with the tray.

The flaming confection somersaulted through the air in a slow, dreadful majesty before landing in Mr. Northcott’s lap with a whump and a hiss.

He leapt from his chair, pushing backward and knocking into the footman as he swatted at the cake and flames as though he were fighting a swarm of bees, soaked in brandy.

Chairs scraped as everyone around the room offered advice on how best to handle the situation, none of them achieving any results until Myra grabbed the vase of flowers in the center of the table.

She threw the flowers aside and then doused Mr. Northcott’s pants.

“Well,” Myra said as she slowly placed the vase on the table once more. She took a deep breath, willing her voice not to tremble as she looked to the earl, Lord Southwood, and the countess, purposefully avoiding Mr. Northcott. “If you will excuse me, I have had enough excitement this evening.”

With a curtsy, she left for her bedchamber.