Page 4 of The Derbyshire Dance (Kendall House #3)

Nigel paused. This was a far different reception than when he usually approached a lady at the theatre, at a ball, or in Hyde Park.

Thunder and turf! He was considered a handsome fellow.

Still in the prime of life. Possessed of all his hair.

Well-muscled in physique. And with a title to boot!

His carefully cultivated rakish reputation might be a deterrent to the more prudish members of the ton, but he had never encountered a matchmaking mama who would treat him with a lack of enthusiasm.

And yet, this Derbyshire gentlewoman looked decidedly put out by his presence in her neighbour’s house.

“I’m sorry my cat has disturbed your peace,” continued Miss Morrison, focusing all her attention on the truant feline.

“She tends to wander far afield, but she usually ends up in a neighbour’s barn, not their house.

” She half-knelt, letting the skirt of her drab dress drag on the floor. “Come here, Magpie.”

To Nigel’s amusement, the white-and-black creature backed away. It took the end of the string in its mouth and darted under the sofa. Apparently, Magpie—like any self-respecting feline—had no intention of coming at its owner’s beck and call.

Nigel reached down and seized the ball of string, tugging gently to lure the cat out of its hiding hole. But even though he was able to dislodge the string from the cat’s claws and draw it out from under the sofa, Magpie did not follow suit.

“I fear that you must take a seat,” said Nigel, “until your cat decides she wants to be caught.”

With a shrug, Miss Morrison sat down on the edge of the sofa, perched like a bird who planned to take flight as soon as a prevailing wind could be found.

Her grey eyes swept over Nigel like a broom.

He was relieved that he had obtained a clean shirt from Mrs. Garrick this morning and that he’d had the wisdom not to let the inept Archie tie his cravat—although why he should care about that was beyond him!

Miss Morrison was clearly no arbiter of fashion.

“How are you acquainted with the Audeleys, Mr. Lymington?”

The word “Mr.” grated on him. He supposed it was providential that this provincial miss was unaware that he was a duke.

But still, where was the fluttering of fans, eyelashes, and hearts that he had come to expect?

He had spent the last two years seeking to impress the whole world with his ducal position, and now he must hide it under a bushel like a pile of rotten apples.

And yet, even if he did reveal it, he had the distinct suspicion that it would impress this woman no more than his appearance had.

She had neither the giddy exuberance of inexperienced debutantes nor the sly innuendo of more experienced ladies of the ton.

Her cool indifference annoyed him. And intrigued him.

“I met Mrs. Audeley and her son during their stay in London.”

“So, the Audeleys have returned home at last?”

“They have not. Mrs. Audeley was kind enough to offer me a place to stay as I had business in Derbyshire.”

Her grey eyes opened wide. “What sort of business?”

The business of avoiding the seamier side of London society—although that was not exactly an answer one could share. Nigel cudgelled his brain for an excuse. What sort of business would take a man to this part of the world? Sheep? Boulders? Umbrellas? “Er…I’m investigating some mining rights.”

“Who is your contact? Mr. Brownlee?”

“Among others.” He waved a dismissive hand with more confidence than he felt. Who on earth was Mr. Brownlee? Was he a neighbour of the Audeleys? And did he have a mine on his property?

“Are you an investor?”

“I’m considering it.” Nigel had no funds at present to do any such thing, but he attempted to imbue his answer with an air of mystery.

This Miss Morrison was nothing if not inquisitive.

He did not remember any London lady questioning his business in such a determined tone of voice!

He wished she would stop asking questions…

and take off her bonnet so he could see what colour her hair was.

“Welcome to Derbyshire,” said Miss Morrison, giving him a nod as she finished her interrogation. She did not remove her bonnet.

Nigel looked at the low space beneath the sofa. The cat continued its refusal to come out. “Your cat is still delinquent, Miss Morrison, so you must tell me something about yourself while we wait. How do you know the Audeleys?”

“Oh, they have been my neighbours ever since I can remember. Mrs. Audeley, as you must already know, is a dear woman and a credit to the county.”

“And Mr. Audeley?”

“We do not see eye to eye on agricultural practices, but Mr. Audeley is a sincere young man with romantic sensibilities.”

Nigel’s dark eyes blinked. Eye to eye on agricultural practices?

What kind of antidote was this spinster?

And he was fully aware that Mr. Audeley was filled to the brim with romantic sensibilities.

It was Gyles Audeley’s romantic sensibilities that had led Nigel, Mrs. Audeley, and the infinitely aggravating Lord Kendall on a wild goose chase from London to Grantham to Nottingham to Derbyshire—only to discover that Gyles Audeley had not eloped hither with Nigel’s niece Louisa and had instead vanished into thin air!

“How good to hear that the Audeleys have your stamp of approval,” said Nigel dryly. “My visit will be all the better knowing that my hosts are respected by their neighbours.”

The woman’s grey eyes narrowed. “Why, Mr. Lymington, I do believe you are having fun at my expense.” Before he could reply, she bent down and collared the cat that was nosing its way out from under the sofa.

“But now that I have Magpie, I shall intrude no further on your time. I daresay I shall see you at church tomorrow morning.” She stood up to leave, holding the unprotesting feline against the brown wool that swathed her breast.

“Unlikely,” said Nigel, standing as well. The shapeless dress hardly revealed anything of Miss Morrison’s figure, but he was certain that she had one there, somewhere, under all that fabric. He had the sudden urge to unsettle her with his libertine views. “I rarely attend services.”

She stared at him with a hint of scorn on her brow. “Are you irreligious, Mr. Lymington?”

“Er, no, I am not an atheist. But I cannot abide how vicars love to make a man feel guilty for everything he does.”

“No smoke without fire,” said Miss Morrison promptly. “Perhaps you feel guilty because you ought to feel guilty.”

Nigel nearly took a step backwards. A society woman would have tittered and laughed and agreed with him how dull vicars were.

His friend Lady Maltrousse would have batted him with her fan and invited him to play cards with her instead of going to church.

But Miss Morrison knew how to turn a witticism into a criticism, and in the process, find a man’s weak spot and press in the blade to the very hilt .

“I feel guilty right now,” said Nigel, “for taking up so much of your time.” He made a dramatic step toward the door to the parlour, indicating his readiness to bid his guest adieu.

“I forgive you,” said Miss Morrison cheerfully, making quick work of the distance to the exit. “And thank you for occupying my cat. I hope she will not trouble you again.”

“ She was no trouble,” said Nigel, unable to resist sending another barb her way.

Miss Morrison ignored him and stepped out the door.

He watched her plain chip bonnet and unfashionable brown dress disappear down the path and took a deep breath. As troublesome as Miss Morrison had been, he almost wished she would have deigned to stay and vex him longer. At least it would have given him someone to talk to.

As matters stood now, the only chance he would have to chat with her again would be hoping her cat returned to visit the scullery or visiting the nearby parish church.