But there was no backing out now. His father’s word wasn’t worth the breath it floated on, but Lawrence had kept every vow for two and thirty years. Miss York liked the painting; he’d promised to give it to her. On this day. At this time. Nowhere to go but forward.
Besides, “a few bluestockings” was hardly a lion’s den…was it?
“Philippa, my dear, look who’s arrived!” Mrs. York sang out as they entered a grand parlor.
The room was enormous, with seats for over two dozen guests, and every chair was full.
Lawrence couldfeelthe weight of too many gazes landing on him at once.
Half of them, he did not recognize—perhaps those were the “bluestockings”—but the other half were familiar faces from polite society. He swallowed hard. He didn’t merely need to impress Miss York and her parents; he needed to charm an entire room.
If only influencing a parlor full of women were as easy as debating customs and excise reform at Westminster with a few hundred of his peers. Quoting the latest committee findings was unlikely to gain him any points here.
He wouldn’t acknowledge any of them, Lawrence decided. The situation was too fraught and the chance for error too high. Missteps like smiling at or snubbing the wrong young lady. He would place all of his attention on Miss York. That could be interpreted as romantic, could it not? Here he was with a courting gift, a knight bearing a tapestry of dancing demons for his fair maiden.
Miss York, for her part, was enshrouded in her usual yards of voluminous lace. Only her pink cheeks and dimpled hands protruded from the delicate froth, lending her the appearance of a life-sized doll.
Her eternally blank expression made the resemblance uncanny.
“Miss York,” Lawrence began, then paused. He could not kiss her hand with a painting in his arms, and setting it on the ground risked damage. Bowing would be just as unwieldy. He would have to skip the niceties and rush straight to the romance. “I’ve brought you a humble token of my admiration.”
“Ohhh,” gasped one of her friends. “What could it be?”
“A painting my mother informed him I might enjoy.” Miss York gestured toward a blank spot on the wall. “She intends to put it there.”
So. She was not impressed with his courtship gift. Lawrence forced himself to smile anyway.
Miss York didn’t smile back.
The rest of the room was alive with whispers.
“Is it a love match?”
“Why else would he wed beneath him?Myfather is a marquess.”
“What, did you think he was bringing the gift to you?”
“Do you think she loves him?”
“Who can ever tell what she’s thinking? I cannot wait to see the artwork he brought her.”
The back of Lawrence’s neck flushed with heat.
Yes, Miss York was marrying him for his title. Yes, he needed her dowry. But that didn’t have to be all they shared. Even a marriage of convenience could work with a modicum of effort.
But first he had to get rid of this bloody painting.
“Could someone ring for a pair of shears?” he asked politely.
“Here!” Mrs. York trilled.
Two wigged footmen, identical in height and elegant livery, glided into the room and relieved Lawrence of the canvas.
Now was his chance to kiss Miss York’s hand. Before he could do so, a maid handed her a sharp pair of metal shears.
Miss York rose to her feet in a rustle of lace.
A wave of whispers once again rushed through the parlor. Lawrence risked a subtle glance over his shoulder.
