Page 36

Chapter

EIGHTEEN

Lottie almost fell off her chair when Lord Wennington strode into the breakfast room.

He wasn’t dressed for riding either, which was most unlike him in the mornings.

Instead, he was wearing a smart forest-green coat that did wonders for both his shoulders and his coloring, a tan waistcoat, and buff breeches that hugged his powerful rider’s thighs in a way that made her mouth water.

He’d even tied a cravat when he was usually one for a simple country knot.

“Good morning, everyone.” He bent to kiss his equally stunned mother’s cheek.

“And my apologies for neglecting you all yesterday but urgent estate business came up that I could not get out of. I hope you can all forgive me.” But while he was smiling at no one in particular, his eyes scanned every pair seated around the table but hers.

“Of course we forgive you, my lord.” Lady Lynette Connaughlty, the most dislikable of the invited debutantes present, simpered as Guy took his seat at the head of the table.

Lottie had taken an instant dislike to her the moment she had shown her to her assigned bedchamber and Lady Lynette had pointed out all of the things she would change in the charming room as soon as she became the viscountess.

The arrogance of the chit was astounding.

“As I told everyone here repeatedly yesterday, you must be a very busy man.”

And good gracious, did Lady Lynette love to pontificate!

No sooner had she put her foot in the door than she behaved as if she owned the place while expecting everyone else to defer to her as if she were already the viscountess.

If anyone dared continue their conversation while she interrupted, Lady Lynette would shush them with a frown.

“An estate as large as yours takes a lot of running. Especially at this time of year when the carrots need harvesting. I spotted your workers plowing up those straightaway on our tour of the grounds yesterday. Those and the turnips.” As Guy blinked at her, clearly unsure quite how to respond to that, Lady Lynette batted her lashes at him across the table.

“Well done, you, for both carrots and turnips are such difficult crops to grow.” That, in a nutshell, was why Lady Lynette was so dislikable.

Not only was she a dreadful know-it-all—which would have been quite bad enough in itself—she actually knew nothing at all.

Carrots and turnips were harvested in July and not September, and any fool could see that his workers had been harvesting the wheat.

With scythes and not plows. If any farmer was ever foolish enough to harvest his carrots with a plow, he’d have a crop of mush!

And there was nothing difficult about growing them, beyond the backbreaking tasks of planting the seedlings and pulling them up by hand.

But the self-appointed diamond of the last three seasons did love the sound of her own voice and was apparently an expert on everything.

“Thank you,” he eventually stuttered when he realized that Lady Lynette was actually ignorant and not being ironic. “I… um… hope you enjoyed your tour.”

“Oh, it was quite splendid! As usual.” In case the awful Lady Lynette had scored some points over her, Miss Abigail Maybury, the Kent neighbor who was seated beside him and was possibly the most shameless young lady present, touched his arm with bold overfamiliarity.

Exactly as his mother had hoped she would.

“But then I have always loved your beautiful grounds, my lord.” If her rival had simpered, Miss Maybury positively oozed take-me-I-am-yours eagerness.

“It has been too long since we last took a turn about them. I would be happy to withdraw from the bowls tournament this afternoon if you fancied some proper exercise later.”

“I would too.” Lady Lynette batted her lashes some more.

“As would I,” said two of the other young ladies in unison, as clearly none of them had any pride when it came to snaring themselves a viscount.

As much as that brazen behavior appalled her, Lottie was sorely tempted to toss her hat into the ring too.

Not because she particularly craved exercise or because she wanted to attempt to compete with these awful women—although unsurprisingly after their spectacular kiss, she did—but because she was desperate for a chance to apologize to him again.

She had hurt him and that had torn her to shreds, so at the very least, if he couldn’t forgive her, she wanted him to understand that she hadn’t had a choice.

As if he knew she was pondering how best to approach him, his stormy gaze briefly settled on Lottie’s, then hardened before it snapped away.

“If the four of you are in such dire need of vigorous exercise, I suggest you all take some together this afternoon.” That came from Lady Frinton, whose expression let the young ladies concerned know that she thought them all pathetic.

“My nephew has already missed out on too much of his own birthday celebrations and cannot be spared to accompany you. Besides…” The old lady shot him a pointed look over her teacup.

“He has promised to be my bowls partner, isn’t that right, Guy? ”

As Lady Wennington’s head swiveled his way, incredulous, he looked from the debutantes to his aunt and back again, like a man who couldn’t decide which activity he found the least horrifying.

“Er… yes. I did, aunt.” Then when Lady Frinton continued to glare at him, added, “Unless my mother wants me to be her partner, of course, as she should get first dibs.”

“Really?” He might as well have just offered her the moon, Lady Wennington was so overjoyed. “You would partner with me?”

He nodded with all the enthusiasm of a man headed to the gallows.

“Then that’s settled.” Lady Frinton’s smug smile suggested that the old dragon was up to something, although Lottie did not know what.

“In this afternoon’s league, mother and son will form one team.

Travers and I the second.” The slight tic in Guy’s jaw was his only outward acknowledgment that he wasn’t happy about Lottie playing.

Or even being here when she was supposed to be keeping out of his sight.

“But which two teams are brave enough to take us on in a best of three?”

Lady Lynette shot out of her seat like an eager firework.

“Well, obviously my dear mama and I will make up the third. We are both excellent bowls players. Some might say the best in Mayfair.” Because of course they were—especially if the arrogant Lady Lynette said so.

“It’s all in the wrists.” She leaned over to waft one of hers in front of his face.

Either to show him how superior her wrists were to all the other wrists present, or to attempt to entice him with her perfume.

Another young lady was on the cusp of volunteering, too, when Miss Maybury pipped her to the post, and who likely would have whacked all her potential rivals with a post too if she’d had one handy.

“Count us Mayburys in. We need a second team from the Kent contingent, don’t we?

” She placed a possessive hand over Guy’s sleeve again.

“While I am sure Mayfair produces some excellent players, I suspect those from Kent have the edge. What say you, my lord?”

“Er…” Guy looked ready to bolt and likely would have if his breakfast hadn’t arrived and given him the excuse to free his arm from her grip. “I suppose so.”

“Will you be accompanying us to Rochester Castle this morning, my lord, or do you have better things to do?” The youngest but richest deb of the bunch, Miss Beatrice Yates, managed to ask her question with enough casual disinterest, as she toyed with her eggs, to sound as though she wasn’t the least bit bothered about snaring herself a viscount.

It would have been impressive if she hadn’t been the daughter of one of England’s most successful canal builders.

An ambitious man who had dragged himself up from nothing but his bootstraps.

One who now only needed to inject some blue blood into his family to render his new money more palatable to the old-monied aristocratic ranks he aspired to complete acceptance in.

“He will,” said Lady Frinton with a glower at her nephew. “Won’t you, Guy?”

“Yes,” he replied with an overbright smile and abject fear in eyes that were locked suspiciously on his wily old aunt’s. “I am looking forward to it.”

For reasons best known to herself, Lady Frinton personally organized all the assorted and amassed carriages headed to Rochester.

It made no difference who owned the conveyance; if it had been commandeered for the trip, then she decided who sat in it.

Obviously, her well-sprung, purple coach went first and had the most space in it as the only people allowed to sit inside were her, her sister, and her nephew.

That also meant that all the other stuffed coaches had to sit impatiently on the drive while she allocated the seating from the front to the back.

If the old battle-axe had a plan, it only made sense to Lady Frinton and she didn’t share it.

That was why Lottie and the long-suffering Longbottom were made to direct all the accompanying parents to the last six carriages and all the debutantes were squeezed into the rest. There seemed to be some sort of ranking to those debutantes too, with the most annoying or most eligible all shoved in together in the second carriage, no doubt for Lady Frinton’s own sport, and the most amiable or those who faded into the background grouped accordingly behind.

“Is that everyone?” A stupid question when the carriages were all now full and the driveway deserted.

“Yes, my lady. Apart from you, of course.”