Sir Edmund offered a lazy smile along with his hand. His gaze was very direct and lingered for a beat too long, making Adam wonder if he preferred men.
The lady of the group was a handsome, dark-haired woman in her late thirties or early forties.
“My sister,” Sir Edmund drawled, “Mrs. Thewlis.”
“Pleased to make your acquaintance, ma’am,” Adam bowed over her hand. She inclined her head politely.
“And this—” Sir Edmund went on, gesturing at the third member of their party, “is my sister’s intended, Signor Gallo.”
Gallo was a handsome fellow—Italian presumably, with a dark complexion and melting brown eyes. He appeared a good decade younger than Mrs. Thewlis. He was an artist, he explained, a portrait painter.
Althea and Sir Edmund began talking about some mutual acquaintance, leaving Adam to converse with Mrs Thewlis and Gallo, neither of whom seemed inclined to give more than monosyllabic answers to Adam’s polite questions. After a few minutes of excruciating small talk, he was grateful to see Simon approaching again.
“Excuse me, ma’am,” Simon said to Mrs. Thewlis. “I’m afraid I have to steal my brother away.” He glanced at Adam. “Althea’s great-aunt wants to meet you.”
“Of course,” Adam replied, probably too enthusiastically. He offered a brief bow to Mrs Thewlis and nodded at Gallo.
As they strolled away, Simon said under his breath, “Sorry about this.”
“No apology necessary,” Adam said. “I’m glad you rescued me.”
“That’s not why I’m apologising. Wait till you meet great-aunt Maud.”
Adam remembered the other great-aunt of Lysander’s he’d met—Lady Beresford. A horror of a woman who’d looked down her nose at him and disdainfully offered him two fingers to shake. God, he hoped this one wasn’t like her. He’d barely kept his temper last time.
Thankfully though, the lady Simon led him to was nothing like the hatchet-faced Lady Beresford. She was a dainty, pink-cheeked old lady with kind, twinkling eyes and a piece of embroidery work sitting on her knee. At her side sat a sober-looking young woman with light brown hair and faded blue eyes. She wore a demure gown of dove grey and sat quietly with her hands folded in her lap.
“Here we are, Mrs. Winterbourne,” Simon said. “This is the gentleman you were asking about—my brother, Mr. Adam Freeman.”
“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Freeman,” Mrs Winterbourne said, in a high, twittering sort of voice. She offered her hand and as Adam bowed over it, added in the same polite tone, though directing her comments to the young woman this time. “Isn’t he handsome, Anne dear? And he appears to have a very sizeable co—”
“I’m Anne Greenhill,” the young woman interrupted brightly. “Mrs. Winterbourne’s companion. Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Freeman.”
Stifling the laughter threatening to burst out of him, Adam released the old lady’s hand and turned to bow to the young woman.
“And you, Miss Greenhill,” he replied, before glancing at Simon, who was looking pained and amused in equal measure.
“Will you be playing the pianoforte for us again this evening, Miss Greenhill?” Simon asked in a blatant change of subject. “Your performance yesterday evening was very enjoyable. Don’t you agree, Mrs. Winterbourne?”
“Oh yes, Anne plays beautifully,” the old lady agreed.
Between the efforts of Miss Greenhill and Simon, the conversation remained on a reasonably even keel for the next few minutes, though Adam noticed Miss Greenhill quite suddenly interrupting Mrs. Winterbourne once or twice, as though to head off another shocking remark. She was very adept it, he thought, and Mrs. Winterbourne seemed to take it in remarkably good part.
Once a polite quarter hour had passed, Adam excused himself. Finally, he was free to make his way to Lysander’s side.
As he crossed the drawing room, he watched Lysander conversing with his companions. That ever-errant lock of golden hair tumbled over Lysander’s forehead and Adam felt a tug of affection at the sight. His hand itched to smooth it back, but there could be no touching between them here.
The young god was still standing beside him, though now there was a young lady too, a pert little thing with fair hair and an impish smile.
“Mr. Freeman!” she exclaimed as he approached, showing every appearance of delight, “How marvellous to see you again.”
Evidently they had met before. Adam threw Lysander a faintly panicked glance, and Lysander smoothly rescued him.
“You remember Lady Arabella Cavendish?” he said.
“Of course,” Adam replied, smiling at the young woman. “How could I forget so lovely a lady?”
She beamed at him, pleased by his gallantry.
“And this is my brother, Lord Perry Cavendish,” she said, indicating the young god. “He and Lysander have been friends since they were in leading strings.”
Cavendish offered a large hand, which Adam shook. The man’s grip was firm but not overbearing and his smile was pleasant, so there was really no reason for the instant stab of dislike Adam experienced. Other than that Cavendish was Lysander’s oldest friend, apparently, and that Lysander was now smiling at him, rather than at Adam.
“So,” Cavendish said. “You’re the man who stole our Zander away?”
“I don’t know about stealing him,” Adam said. “But yes, I asked him to help me by managing my new estate. As much as I love Edgeley Park, I’m not from the country and barely know one end of a sheep from the other.”
“Well, you picked a good ’un.” Cavendish clapped Lysander on the shoulder. “He looks like a swell cove, don’t he? But truth is, he likes getting his lily-white hands dirty. What he don’t know about farming ain’t worth knowing.”
Cavendish spoke with that particular brand of cant affected by a certain type of young aristocrat. It was a manner of speaking that irritated Adam intensely, and it irritated him further that he saw no sign of similar dislike on Lysander’s face. Indeed, Lysander was smiling at Cavendish warmly.
“Hardly, Perry!” he protested, half-laughing. “I’m still learning myself—goodness, I’ve heaps to learn.”
When Cavendish opened his mouth, presumably to argue, Lysander forestalled him by turning to Lady Arabella. “So what’s the news in town, Bella?”
Lady Arabella perked up. “Well,” she said in the tone of someone who has something of great import to convey. “Did you hear about Freddy Montague?”
She launched into a story that Adam gathered was terribly scandalous, though the events she described struck him as rather commonplace. Something about a young lady’s glove going missing, at the end of which the unfortunate Montague found himself thoroughly engaged to be married. Lysander seemed to find it entertaining at least, laughing in that open, generous way of his, his blue eyes warm and amused. He had such a sunny nature; such an easy disposition. It made a man feel good just be around Lysander Winterbourne. It made a man want to be more like him.
As Adam watched Lysander laugh, he became gradually aware that he too he was being observed...by Cavendish. When Adam turned to look at him, Cavendish averted his gaze, but Adam was left wondering what the man had seen on Adam’s face. How much had Adam given away of his thoughts? He needed to be more careful than this, if he and Lysander were to get through the rest of this visit without incident. He could not expose Lysander to speculation.
The footmen had already begun clearing away the tea things when one last person entered the drawing room. She entered very quietly, quite unnoticed by most of the guests, only Adam happened to be glancing her way when she arrived. She was a young and very lovely woman with simply dressed fair hair and very blue eyes. Her expression was grave and somewhat wary, but when her gaze lit upon Lysander, she was suddenly transformed by a wide, delighted smile, and she hurried across the room towards them.
“Lysander!” she cried, reaching out to him with both hands.
“Good lord, Gwen,” Lysander took her hands in his and smiled down
at her. “You look wonderful!”
It was easy to see they were brother and sister. The same golden hair, the same blue eyes. The same cast to their features, though Lysander’s face was masculine while Gwen’s was finer-featured, her chin pointed where his was square.
All in all, they were quite the Sebastian and Viola.
“You do too!” Gwen said, her expression fond.
Lysander gestured at Cavendish. “You remember Perry? And Arabella—”
“Bella, yes, of course.” Gwen turned to them, smiling. “It’s lovely to see you both again. It’s been years.”
A brief flurry of conversation followed, small recollections of the past, until Gwen glanced at Adam, who was standing on the margins of the group, feeling somewhat awkward now.
“And this is Mr. Adam Freeman,” Lysander said. He paused, then added, “Simon’s brother.”
Did Adam imagine the slightly wistful note in Lysander’s voice as he introduced him in that way, as Simon’s brother?
Gwen’s smile for Adam was polite and friendly. She offered her hand and he performed the same bow over it that he’d performed at least a dozen times already this afternoon.
“I gather Lysander’s been acting as your steward, Mr. Freeman,” she said when he straightened.
“Indeed,” Adam replied. “He was kind enough to take a position at my estate when I confessed I hadn’t the faintest idea how to go about running it.”
Gwen laughed. “Oh, I’m sure he’ll be thoroughly enjoying it. He was always happiest outdoors here, at Winterbourne, weren’t you, Lysander? Always trailing after Mr. Holmes, wanting to know how things were done.”
Lysander flushed slightly, but he laughed too. “Don’t give away all my secrets, Gwen.”
They chatted for a little while longer, but already teatime was over. Lady Winterbourne rose from her chaise longue and informed the remaining guests that dinner would be at half-past seven. Everyone began dispersing, going back to their chambers to rest before getting ready for the evening’s entertainment.
Adam wanted to speak to Lysander, to find some brief few minutes to be alone together, but Gwen had claimed his attention now, drawing him away from the rest of their group to sit with her on a small sofa as the other guests drifted out of the drawing room in twos and threes.
What could Adam do but drift away with them?
Resigned, he followed the Cavendishes up the stairs towards the east wing, feeling thoroughly dissatisfied. He had no idea where Lysander’s rooms were—well, he knew they were in the west wing, but beyond that, nothing—and he certainly had no reason to go up there. If anyone saw him wandering around there, they’d wonder what he was up to.
Still, at least Lysander knew where he was. He was in the “blue room”—which had turned out to be, in actuality, a green room.
A recently and sumptuously redecorated green room.
Adam sighed.
He really was going to have to have a talk with the earl before he left.
Chapter 6 - Lysander
Lysander had a long, comfortable coze with his sister. So long and comfortable that, by the time he got back to his rooms, he barely had enough time for a quick wash and shave before dressing for dinner.
It was just a few minutes shy of half past seven when he hurried downstairs. He’d hoped to see Adam before dinner but now he had no time even for a brief visit to Adam’s bedchamber. His mother expected the whole family to be in place and ready to welcome the guests.
He’d have to think of some other way of getting Adam alone. Preferably one that wouldn’t involve him being seen by the other guests hanging around in the east wing.
When he entered the drawing room he found his mother already reclined on her chaise longue, a glass of ratafia in hand. Simon and Althea sat together on a love seat beside her, the three of them chatting easily.
Simon looked up at his entrance. “Lysander!” He rose and stepped forward to greet him with a handshake, a politician’s smile on his face, warm and insincere at once. He was quite a handsome fellow, though entirely overshadowed by his brother, in Lysander’s opinion.
“It’s good to see you, Simon.”
“And you. Glad to see that brother of mine hasn’t worked you entirely into the ground.” Simon chuckled. “He can be quite the tyrant.”
“No, no, he’s very fair,” Lysander protested. Then, in an effort to redirect the conversation away from Adam, added, “And I’ve learned such a lot this year, working at the estate. It’s been wonderful.”
He glanced at his mother a little self-consciously. She’d supported his father’s decision to refuse to allow him to work at the Winterbourne estate, and he wondered how she felt hearing him talking being Adam’s steward.
He needn’t have worried. She didn’t appear even to be listening, saying fretfully to his sister, “Gwen should be down by now. Althea, do go and hurry her along, will you?”
Althea rolled her eyes but she rose from the love seat and went to do her mother’s bidding.
Lady Winterbourne sighed heavily. “Really, it’s too bad.”
“What is?” Lysander asked.
“Oh, everything! First of all, I wanted all of my children to come home for Christmas. But Alexander won’t budge from London, Constance insisted on staying put in Kent, and Hector couldn’t get leave from his regiment.”
Lysander suspected Hector probably just preferred to spend his time with his army friends, but he didn’t contradict her.
“And then,” his mother continued, her tone aggrieved, “just when I’d resigned myself to only you, Althea and Gwen coming, your father decided to stay in town for another few days—for what reason I simply can’t imagine! And now Gwen’s behaving like a spoilt girl—a widow of three years who should know better! I told her to come down in a timely manner to greet our guests, but does she listen? No. Goodness knows what she’s doing up there. Reading novels or something, I suppose.” She sighed again, acting very put upon for a lady drinking ratafia with her feet up.
Lysander murmured something noncommittal and comforting. Thankfully it was too late for her to continue her rant—already the guests had begun to trickle in.
For the next quarter hour, Lysander circulated amongst his mother’s guests, making them welcome and ensuring that those who wanted a refreshment were attended to. Most of the ladies chose the sweet, rather weak punch being served, but his great-aunt Maud asked for neat brandy while his mother and Bella both opted for ratafia.
“You should be drinking lemonade,” a frowning Perry told his sister, which earned him a glance so scornful, Perry immediately subsided with a defeated sigh.
“Oh, look,” Bella said under her breath. “Here comes Mr. Freeman. He’s so handsome! I wish I could just...oh, just marry him!” Somehow, she managed to make the word marry sound unutterably filthy.
Lysander’s heart thudded as Adam strolled across the drawing room, severely elegant in his black and white evening clothes. He tried to catch Adam’s eye, but before he could do so, Adam was being hailed by one of the other guests: Sir Edmund Hunt. Hunt had been talking to Adam at tea as well, and now that Lysander could see the man’s face, he felt sure he saw a hint of flirtation there, a little too much warmth in his smile, a teasing glint in his eyes.
You’re being ridiculous, a small, sensible voice said inside Lysander’s head, but still he watched Adam covertly as he conversed with Sir Edmund, jealousy eating him up. He was glad when Mrs. Thewlis and her fiancé joined the two men, disturbing their tête-à-tête.
“Mr. Gallo is very handsome too.” Bella murmured beside him. “But I don’t suppose he has two pennies to rub together. He must be marrying Mrs. Thewlis for her fortune, don’t you think? She is so proud-looking, though she is quite attractive, I suppose.”
“Bella, for God’s sake, be quiet!” Perry hissed, his expression agonised.
“Oh, pooh!” Bella scoffed. “What did I say?”
“Things a lady doesn’t say about another l
ady,” Perry muttered. “And do you have to pant after everything in breeches?”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, no one heard me!” she replied, but she subsided after that, falling into a moody silence as she drank her ratafia.
Catching sight of Adam again, Lysander quickly excused himself, setting off to intercept him before anyone else could. Lysander had only gone a few steps though, when a twittering, frail little voice, called his name.
“Yoo-hoo! Lysander, dear!”
He made the mistake of glancing in the direction of the voice. Its owner was his great-aunt Maud, a diminutive, rosy old lady with a lace cap covering her white hair. She sat very erect in a high-backed chair, her little feet not quite touching the ground. Anne Greenhill sat beside her, demure in a puce silk gown with her hair simply dressed. As always, Anne’s face was composed, her hands folded neatly in her lap.
Great-aunt Maud beckoned him over and reluctantly, he turned towards her, pasting on a smile as he girded himself for whatever shockingly scandalous thing she might say. Over the past few years, she’d been getting steadily more and more eccentric.
His aunt’s answering smile grew as he approached, wide and delighted.
“Oh, my dear,” she said, “Just look at you, all grown! Well, you always were the most handsome of all the Winterbourne boys, weren’t you? Hardly surprising, I suppose. Jemima was such a beauty in her day.”
It was a fairly harmless opening, Lysander thought with cautious gratitude. He opened his mouth to say something gallant in return—but before he could do so she was continuing, leaning forward to wink broadly and add, “I prefer that one myself though.” He followed the direction of her pointing finger to discover that the object of her admiration was Perry. “A big buck like that is what most ladies want between their thighs, you mark my words!”
Lysander’s cheeks were hot enough to set the yule log alight. He glanced at Anne, whose lips were pressed together so hard the edges were white, and whose shoulders were shaking with repressed mirth.
When Anne finally had herself under control, she said brightly, changing the subject, “Mrs. Winterbourne, do tell your nephew about the adventure dear Fiddlesticks had the other day on the roof. We laughed so much, did we not?”
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