After crossing the square, he strode down the Yorks’ now-familiar corridor toward the sound of voices. When he entered the parlor, more than a dozen faces smiled up at him in surprise. Lawrence did not slow until he reached Miss Philippa York and could make the appropriate pleasantries.
Then, and only then, did he allow himself to dart a brief glance toward Miss Wynchester.
His chest clenched as if his heart had stalled, then picked back up at twice the tempo. His blood rushed far too fast. Looking at her made his mouth water, his fingers twitch to reach for her even though he knew he could not.
In her beige-on-beige lap, she wrung her soft hands. No one else might have noticed, but Lawrence’s heightened senses were solely attuned to her. He had not missed the widening of her eyes at his entrance, the hitch in her breath as her gaze met his.
She clearly hadn’t anticipated his presence here today. Nor would he admit to her that she was the reason he’d come.
He hadmissedher, damn it all. A few fleeting moments of interchanging partners in a country-dance was not enough.
Now that he’d witnessed how others in his social sphere treated Miss Wynchester—or, rather, now that he’d seen her and her aunt shamefully overlooked for the entirety of an evening—he worried the same might be true everywhere.
The thought had him ready to grab his shield and his sword and ride into battle.
Or into a reading circle.
He knew what it was like to want the acceptance of one’s peers. Except Lawrence had a title to fall back on—one that outranked almost everyone else’s. Miss Wynchester was not bon ton. She did not have “Lady Chloe” to use as both armor and weapon. She had no power, parents, or cachet.
But she did have Lawrence.
A fierce protectiveness rushed through him. She was doing all right, wasn’t she?
The other ladies weren’t talking to her, but neither were theynotspeaking to her. They were discussing goings-on at Almack’s or had been, until he barreled into the room.
Miss York smoothed out a lace hem. “Will you join us for tea?”
“Tea sounds lovely,” he forced himself to say.
It did not sound lovely. It sounded like torture. Except for the fact that tea would forever remind him of the kisses he’d shared with Miss Wynchester. No amount of sugar would ever taste as sweet.
He darted another secret glance at her. Was she thinking the same thing? Did she relive those moments again and again, as he did, or had she already forgotten their shared embrace?
Now was definitely not the moment to ask.
He offered his arm to Miss York and accompanied her into the adjoining room. Because this was a reading circle, rather than a formal dinner party, her guests were welcome to take any seat they pleased. His place, presumably, was at Miss York’s side. But Miss Wynchester’s place…
Quickly he scouted the table for the best seat. A comfortable chair, close enough to him to allow the exchange of words, but not so close as to raise suspicion, and positioned in such a way as to avoid the many elaborate gilt-framed mirrors decorating the York parlor.
He helped a few other guests into chairs that werenotthe seat he’d earmarked for Miss Wynchester, then motioned her to the safe one.
As she lowered herself into the chair, he could not tell whether she understood that he was protecting her as best he could in what he knew to be an uncomfortable situation for her. But whether she realized didn’t matter. He wanted her to be comfortable.
At least one of them would be.
Footmen arrived with silver trays. The quartered sandwiches and little cakes looked scrumptious, but Lawrence couldn’t tear his gaze from the delicate teapots.
For the past two and thirty years, he’d avoided any public situation in which he might be expected to choke down a few drops of tea.
Until today.
He filled his cup halfway with milk and stopped the maid before she poured tea to the brim. The moment called for sugar. Loads of it. But as Miss Wynchester had rightfully pointed out, sugar was dear. Lawrence would not make a favorable impression on Miss York or her mother by hoarding their supply for himself.
His trepidation rising with every passing moment, he waited until the ladies had taken their sugar before dropping one lonely lump into his cup.
He picked up his spoon as slowly as possible. If he wasted enough time dissolving the lump, perhaps he wouldn’t have to drink the tea at all. He eased the silver spoon below the surface of the steaming liquid.
The spoon immediately stopped moving. Frowning, he gave it a little wiggle. A half dozen sugar lumps briefly broke the surface.
