Felton took the path to Monbury Manor with a bit more cheerfulness in his step. The servant had arrived an hour ago with a request for “young Northwood’s presence,” and Felton had immediately set off to obey.
It was about time too. How long had it been? A week now?
When he reached Monbury Manor, he walked faster until he passed the gate and reached the entrance doors.
The butler greeted him and took his hat. “Lord Gillingham awaits you in the saloon, sir.”
“Thank you. I can find it myself.” He made quick time in reaching the room, but paused in the doorway before he made himself known.
Lord Gillingham stood at the ornate mantel, hands behind his back, staring up at the large portraits of one ancestor after another. He lingered longest on the largest painting—the only portrait ever done of the late Lady Gillingham.
Felton cleared his throat.
With neither smile nor frown, Lord Gillingham stepped away from the mantel. “You wasted very little time in arriving.”
“You wasted quite a great deal of time, I daresay, in sending an invitation.”
“I have been busy.”
“I see.”
“In short, I did not wish you bothering my daughter.”
A flare of irritation shot through him. “With all due respect, my lord—”
“Never mind, Northwood. Do come in and take a seat, won’t you?” Felton approached and sat on the olive-green couch opposite the viscount. They sat staring at each other, eye to eye, in a way so intense that to look away would have been a blight on either’s manhood.
Lord Gillingham’s lips started upward. “You are a dashed determined boy, Northwood.”
“Should I apologize?”
“By no means. Though it irks me, I fear I cannot help but admire it too.” The viscount leaned back into his striped green couch. “How long do you suppose it’s been since there’s been a ball in here?”
Felton glanced around the spacious room, with its elaborate baroque ceiling, Turkish rug, and green furniture and walls. Even the chandelier, though unlit, made the room seem alive and pensive. “Since before…well, before my dancing time, no doubt.”
“What say you to a ball now?”
“What?”
“In honor of Eliza’s return. I thought perhaps the dancing and gaiety would encourage her.”
“Or frighten away any wits she has left.”
“Trying to make my decisions for me again?”
“No, my lord.” Felton leaned back too, though his muscles tightened with tension. “You asked.”
“So I did.”
“Is that why you sent for me?”
“No, it is not. She is asking for you.”
“Who?”
“My daughter, Northwood. You do remember, of course? The one you kidnapped and brought here without my knowing—”
“I apologized for that.” Felton came to his feet. “And if I am to be insulted for it again at every turn of the conversation, I should take my leave now.”
