Another bump from her backside sent the painted wooden pedestal crashing to the floor.
The other brother—she still couldn’t tell them apart—grabbed Dancer, lifted the dog up, and set him down away from Olivia. “Stay!” he said sternly, and the animal whined before he collapsed into a crouched position.
Already anticipating trouble, Trouncer dropped his front paws to the floor and rolled onto his side. He sniffed at Olivia’s hem, and then his black narrow angular head disappeared so he could rest his head against the top of her shoe.
Trouncer sighed.
Warily, Olivia glanced up at the Netherwood in front of her. Her brief tussle with the dogs had shaken a few delicate hair combs loose, leaving her hair disheveled. The front of her bodice had smudges of dirt from the dogs’ paws, and there was a good chance that she smelled like wet dog hair.
The gentleman standing in front of her took note of every detail.
“You have a talent for causing trouble, Miss Lydall,” he observed while the other gentlemen laughed around them.
“Ah, so it is you, Lord Kempthorn,” Olivia said brightly. She gently slipped her shoe free from underneath Trouncer’s dark head. “I knew I could count on you.”
To bear witness to yet another humiliating moment in my life.
She offered him a vague smile as she stepped around him and the dogs to greet her father.
* * *
Thorn shook his head as he righted the fallen pedestal.
“Here,” Gideon said, thrusting the blue and white vase up at Thorn.
Thorn turned to the pedestal and carefully placed the vase back on its base. “Are you finished shining the oak boards with your backside?”
His brother stared up at him in disbelief. “I caught the vase, did I not? And no one has bothered to thank me for it.”
The black greyhound with a patch of white on his right shoulder climbed to his feet and went to Gideon. The dog began licking the side of his face. Gideon patted the dog. “That’s enough, Trouncer. I stand corrected. Someone in this family appreciates my efforts.”
“Trouncer is not the only one who appreciates that you sacrificed your dignity on my behalf,” Miss Lydall said, shifting her stance so she could divide her attention between Lord Dewick and Gideon. “The vase belonged to my great-grandmother. I would have never forgiven myself if I had been responsible for breaking it.”
“I must admit, I am impressed,” Chance said, crossing the room and offering his hand to his cousin. “I would not have believed you were capable of such speed and grace.”
“At least not without the benefit of a proper incentive, like your breeches ablaze,” Thorn teased.
“Or being pursued by an angry mob,” Chance quipped.
Gideon gave his cousin a lopsided grin and accepted the other man’s hand. Once he was standing again, he retrieved a handkerchief from the inner pocket of his frock coat and wiped the residual wetness from his cheek.
“Well, I thought you were quite heroic, Mr. Netherwood,” Miss Lydall said crisply, feeling the need to defend him. The annoyance in her face faded when the door opened and the butler appeared. “Oh good, it is you, Hopps. I was searching for you earlier.”
Hopps had joined the Lydall household ten years ago. His last employer had a large household that included sixteen children. The old butler liked to lament to anyone who would listen that he had ruined his back climbing up and down the stairs at all hours. He had been searching for a more tranquil household, and Treversham House seemed agreeable since Lord Dewick’s sons were away at school.
Although Thorn was certain Miss Lydall had tested the servant’s patience a time or two over the years.
“My apologies, miss,” the sixty-year-old servant said. “I noticed the mud in the hall so I went to fetch some rags and water to clean it up.”
Miss Lydall’s brow furrowed with concern. “You are taking on too much in Mrs. Henders’ absence. You should not be cleaning the floor, Hopps.”
The servant expelled a heavy sigh. “Well, my knees aren’t as sturdy as they used to be, but I am not too old to carry out my duties,” the butler said, his mouth thinning as he noticed the mud on the carpet and wood flooring. “Of course, my lower back does give me trouble when it rains.”
Familiar with the servant’s complaints, Lord Dewick said, “Hopps, there is no reason for you to see to the task yourself. Have one of the maids scrub the floor.”
The gentleman was too polite to mention that he was a year younger than the butler.
“You are too kind, milord,” the servant replied.
Miss Lydall sent her father a look of gratitude. She moved closer to Thorn, and a curious tension settled in his shoulders as she gestured toward the greyhounds. “I fear the dogs are too high-spirited for company. Would you mind taking them out of the room before you serve refreshments?”
“Of course, Miss Lydall. I will return shortly with the tea,” Hopps said. He clapped his hands to capture the dogs’ attention. “Trouncer, Dancer—come.”
The butler grabbed Trouncer’s collar the moment the animal was within reach. Dancer collided into Miss Lydall as he raced to join Trouncer at the servant’s side, causing her to stumble into Thorn.
His arm came around her as he tried to steady her grasped left forearm. To the casual observer, it might have been mistaken for an intimate embrace.
Her lowered gaze lifted, revealing a flustered mix of shyness, awareness, and finally embarrassment. Thorn stood there open-mouthed, feeling the impact of her cornflower blue eyes in his gut.
“My apologies,” she murmured, and slipped out of his embrace. “You must forgive Dancer for his exuberance. He assumes he will be receiving a treat.”
A somewhat predictable reaction from a male.
What treat would you offer me, I wonder?
“Of course,” he replied, his throat strangling on his words.
Miss Lydall nodded, and left him to give Hobbs some additional instructions.
For a few seconds he stood there, distracted by the gentle sway of her hips. Appalled that he was ogling Lord Dewick’s daughter while the gentleman was in the same room, he deliberately looked away, his gaze colliding with Chance’s. His cousin’s lips curved in amusement as he walked by—as if he could read the other man’s thoughts.
Miss Lydall closed the library door and turn to face the four gentlemen in the room. “So Papa,” she said, striding toward her father, “was there a reason why you wished to see me?”
Thorn and Gideon moved closer as Lord Dewick returned to his desk to pick up a handwritten note.
“Yes, I almost forgot the reason why I had summoned you.” The baron handed her the paper. “Our guests were so kind to deliver an invitation from Lady Felstead.”
“Is she planning another gathering?”
Thorn sat down and watched Miss Lydall as she unfolded his mother’s note with curiosity. A slight pout formed on her lips as she read it. He had expected her to be overjoyed by the marchioness’s invitation, but the lady managed to surprise him again.
Her expression was solemn as she handed the letter back to her father.
“It is very thoughtful of Lady Felstead to include me in her plans,” Miss Lydall said in neutral tones. “However, I must politely decline her invitation.”
Thorn concealed his mild surprise at her announcement.
Gideon, on the other hand, had no compunction of expressing his opinion. “My dear girl, if you believe a polite refusal will satisfy the marchioness, you are sorely underestimating her.”
The baron’s gaze narrowed on his daughter. “I do not see why there is a problem. We were planning to leave for London in a fortnight.”
Miss Lydall sat stiffly in her chair, her body as unyielding as her decision. “You expect me to leave in three days when I have not packed a single trunk? And what of the household? With Mrs. Henders away tending to her daughter, someone is needed to oversee—”
“Hopps will see to everything,”
her father said, dismissing her argument.
“Hopps cannot see to everything,” Miss Lydall protested. “There is too much work to be done and it would be unfair to place such a burden on him. Lest you forget, the poor man has a weak back.” She lowered her voice at the end just in case the butler was eavesdropping at the door.
“Hopps is strong as an ox,” Lord Dewick replied, addressing Thorn, Gideon, and Chance. “He just has a propensity to complain about his health. That is all.”
“That is not all,” his daughter said, leaning forward in her seat. “There are a thousand and one things to be done, and you expect me to do them all and pack for Town?”
Thorn had not expected to benefit from the lady’s stubbornness, and for once he was happy to lend his support. “It is a common lament uttered by your sex, and you have my sympathies,” he said, and was rewarded with her complete attention. He anticipated that Miss Lydall might take offense, so he lifted his hand to delay her response. “Whether you join our little group in three days or leave in a fortnight with your father, I see little difference. Both decisions lead to London.”
Miss Lydall’s mouth softened as she sent him a look of gratitude. “I concur. I have no business rushing off to London while the household is in disarray.”
A sensible decision, Thorn thought.
“I disagree,” Lord Dewick said, staring at his daughter as if he was just figuring out that she was rebellious child.
“As do I,” Gideon added, earning a frown from Thorn.
Miss Lydall abruptly shifted her body and head to glare at Lord Fairlamb.
“Do you have an opinion as well, my lord?”
Chance raised his hands in surrender. “I was in the mood for a brief ride so I joined my cousins on their errand. Do what you will,” he said, absolving himself from the argument.
Satisfied that not everyone in the room was trying to bully her into accepting Lady Felstead’s invitation, she turned her attention back to her father. “There is no reason why we cannot go forward with our original plans.”
“Three days is more than enough time for you to pack, Olivia,” Gideon countered. “As Mother mentioned in her letter, you will need to be fitted for dresses for Town. You would be foolish not to take advantage of her expertise.”
Thorn’s thoughts turned inward as Gideon and Lord Dewick debated Miss Lydall on the merits of changing her plans. Although he was not prepared to admit it, he agreed with his brother. The floral pattern of Miss Lydall’s morning dress appeared to be several years old and too matronly for a young lady. It was all too apparent that she could benefit from having someone with a critical eye and a sense of fashion to guide her. Otherwise, she might be ostracized and mocked by certain members of the ton.
But it was not his concern if Miss Lydall’s drab fashion choices and awkwardness turned her into a wallflower for yet another season.
But her vulnerability will draw Gideon to her side.
Thorn had come to Treversham House with the hope of discouraging the lady and her father from accepting Lady Felstead’s invitation. Now he was reevaluating his decision. Perhaps it was a bit shortsighted of him to stifle his mother’s efforts to help Miss Lydall. The lady had been denied her own mother’s affection and guidance and had suffered for it. With a little encouragement, the lady could make a respectable showing with the ton. Her dependence on Gideon would fade once other gentlemen paid her compliments and courted her. His brother would step aside because he was too good of a fellow to stand in the way of Miss Lydall’s happiness.
And if he forgets, I will remind him.
“There is Lady Grisdale to consider,” Lord Dewick said, the name returning Thorn to the conversation.
“What about the countess?” Miss Lydall asked.
Thorn was not fooled by the lady’s cheerful curiosity. Neither was Gideon.
“Well, your decision not to join Lady Felstead’s party puts me in a bit of a quandary,” the baron confessed.
“How so?” she asked, her expression guarded as if already anticipating that she would not like his answer.
“As I explained earlier to our guests, I am not planning to head to London directly since I must travel to Bristol,” Lord Dewick said.
Miss Lydall stared at her father. “How does this involve Lady Grisdale?”
Her father seemed flustered by the question. “Bristol? Oh, nothing at all. That is a bit of unfinished business. Lady Grisdale confided at the fete that she has also been forced to abandon her original plans to travel with friends and expressed a desire to join us. Naturally, I could not refuse.”
Miss Lydall closed her eyes. “Naturally. You are too kind, Papa.” Her shoulders sagged in defeat.
A warm rush of triumph flowed through Thorn. It would have been rude to gloat. He managed to conceal his elation, though Gideon sent him an odd glance. While he could not fathom the reason for Miss Lydall’s reluctance to join his family, he was confident that she would do anything to avoid spending a few days confined in a coach with Lady Grisdale.
Even if that meant spending time with him.
Chapter Nine
Three days later, Olivia sat rigidly on the dull green leather–padded bench of the stagecoach. They were already ten hours into their breakneck eighteen-hour journey to London and she had watched the midnight landscape slowly transition from muted shadowy hues and silhouettes to a brilliant dawn sky of reds, oranges, and yellows. She had taken a moment to admire the sunrise when they had stopped at a coaching inn so the ostlers could change their horses for fresh ones. It had been a truly spectacular sight.
The brief respite from the stuffy interior and the endless jostling lasted only minutes before the stage was ready to depart. Olivia sat beside Lady Felstead while the marchioness’s daughter, Lady Fiona, was seated near the window. Lord Kempthorn and Gideon sat across from them. In the stage following them, Lord and Lady Fairlamb were sharing the compartment with the marchioness’s sister, Lady Arabella; the marquess’s mother and father, the Duke and Duchess of Blackbern; and their eldest unmarried daughter, Lady Honora. There was little time for pleasantries between the two stagecoaches, however; the passing hours had drained Olivia of the fortitude of being sociable.
It was difficult enough to conceal her discomfort from her companions.
Thankfully, their evening departure assured her some privacy since the stuffy interior and the rocking of the coach lulled most of the Netherwoods to sleep.
Except for Lord Kempthorn.
More than once, she had felt his gaze linger on her. She was not about to admit her humiliating weakness to a man like him.
“Are you unwell, Miss Lydall?”
Her eyes were closed, and she wondered if she could feign sleep so she did not have to answer him.
“I know you are not sleeping,” he continued, pitching his voice low so he did not disturb the others. He stretched his leg so his boot brushed against the side of her half boot. “I doubt you have nodded off once.”
Annoyed that he was paying so close attention to her, Olivia opened her eyes and their gazes locked in the morning light that was filtering through the window. “I was unaware that you suffered from insomnia, my lord,” she said, matching his soft inflection. “Or is it a symptom of a more troublesome condition?”
“What the devil are you talking about?”
“Ennui, Lord Kempthorn,” she replied as she brought her handkerchief to her lips.
“Who told you that I suffered from ennui?”
“No one in particular that I can recall,” she admitted. “It was something I overheard last Season. You are aware of how gossip is bandied about a ballroom.”
“You are too intelligent to listen to gossip, Miss Lydall. I am not afflicted with ennui or anything else,” he said crisply.
“Then why are you not sleeping?”
“Who can sleep when the coachman is doing his damnedest to bump and rattle my brains into mush?” he complained.
His quarrelsome grumble
teased a brief smile from her lips. “I always feel like my limbs are being shaken loose,” she confided, trying to ignore the nauseating heat that had been washing over her for the last few hours.
“Is that why you look so pale? You are uncomfortable?” he pressed.
“Among other things,” she vaguely replied. Olivia strived to change the subject. “It appears we are making good time.”
“Aye, the coachman is comfortable with his bone-jarring pace,” he said, staring at her as if she were a puzzle he was determined to solve. “If we can avoid rain, we will keep to his schedule.”
The sleeping marchioness interrupted their conversation with a loud snort. Her chin bounced against her chest and a soft snore rumbled in her throat.
Olivia struggled not to laugh. After all, the lady was the gentleman’s mother. When she glanced over at Lord Kempthorn, she saw that there was a pleasant upward curve to his lips and his eyes gleamed with silent amusement.
“You must be looking forward to returning to London.”
The earl cocked his head to the side and gave her a considering look. “You have not answered my question.”
She blinked, feigning innocence. “What question?”
He muttered something under his breath. “Your pallor concerns me, Miss Lydall. I asked if you were unwell.”
Now that she was committed to the journey, she refused to give Lord Kempthorn a reason to abandon her at one of the coaching inns. “I am fine, my lord.”
“Liar.”
Her eyes flared at his rudeness. She ignored the small fact that she was lying to him. “Are you deliberately trying to provoke me?”
The earl shrugged and leaned back against his seat. “Perhaps. It is a side of your character that I have never witnessed.”
“Really.”
“I have always considered you appallingly honest,” he said, deliberately baiting her.
“And you disapprove,” she said, resisting the urge not to kick him in the shin.
He gestured with his hand. “A clever lady wields lies as agilely as a fan to get what she wants.”
Waiting for an Earl Like You Page 8