“It was so kind of you to dance with me twice, my lord,” Miss Lansing said.
The word wasn’tkindso much as it wasforgetful. Miss Lansing had hinted that she’d like him to sign her dance card early in the evening, so he had, and a little later, her brother had done the same, and Effie had complied, not remembering the earlier encounter. So he’d ended up dancing both a quadrille and, unfortunately, a waltz with the young lady.
“Yes, wasn’t it?” Mr. Lansing was doing something with his eye in Effie’s general direction that Effie supposed was meant to be winking but looked more like an early sign of an impending seizure.
“I do so admire your coiffure, if I may be so bold,” Mr. Lansing went on to say. “When my sister asked me to escort her to visit you today, I resolved to tell you as much.”
“Thank you,” Effie murmured.
He stifled a sigh. This happened. Women flirted with him. Sometimes men did, too. Usually, he flirted back. It was an enjoyable enough way to pass the time, and what was life for if not enjoyment? He was aware that as the heir to an earl, he was no doubt attracting people for reasons other than his sparkling wit and legendary head of hair, but what of it? The days had to be filled somehow.
The Lansing siblings began hinting rather heavy-handedly that they would like him to make an appearance at Vauxhall that evening.
“We could take a walk,” Mr. Lansing said, his eye once again signalling either romantic interest or impending doom.
Effie was accustomed to such overtures from both ladies and gentlemen, but he’d never been the recipient of such from a pair of siblings. He wondered idly what Mr. Lansing’s endgame was. To marry his sister to Effie, thus gaining proximity? If so, he wondered whether Miss Lansing was in on the plot.
How exhausting.
But, again, how interesting that he regarded it so. A year or two ago, he would have found this brand of low-stakes drama diverting. He was never stirred to desire by these kinds of overtures, but he would have played along with one or both siblings, just to amuse himself. Now, he just wanted to escape.
Handily, he had just the excuse. “You will forgive me, but I must take my leave. Lords Harcourt and Marsden are here because we’re about to depart on a holiday.”
An interrogation followed: Where? For how long? Would he bring Miss Lansing a memento? Would he bringMr. Lansing a memento?
“I should never have gone out last night,” Effie said when he and the boys were finally liberated and climbing the stairs toward his bedchamber. “I forget that as amusing as a ball can be, the aftermath is decidedly less so.”
“Poor Effie,” Archie said. “So handsome and eligible and charming, you can’t go anywhere.”
“I’ve been thinking,” Effie said. “If women become old maids at a certain age and are considered on the shelf, why isn’t there an analogous state for men? I am nearly thirty. Will I reach a point at which the marriage-minded schemers will leave me be?”
“I don’t think so,” Archie said. “Regardless, I imagine at some point your parents will force your hand.”
“Curiously, neither has said a word about it. One would think that since I am such a disappointment to Father, he would be anxious for me to marry so that he may influence the next in line for his precious earldom.” Father’s silence on the matter, especially as the years ticked by, was very strange, but Effie considered it a blessing, so he didn’t question it.
“Here we are.” Effie held the door to his bedchamber and gestured the others in ahead of him.
“I thought you said you’d nearly finished packing,” Archie said, looking stern, or as stern as Archie was capable of looking, which wasn’t very.
“Why don’t we have some more tea sent up? Or some port—we can get started early,” Simon said. “We shall repose while you pack.”
“Repose!” Archie protested. “He needs to pack, and we need to go!”
“Go!” called Leander from his cage by the window, drawing the attention of all three men. “Go!”
“I thought he didn’t talk,” Archie said.
“Yes, well, he’s found his voice,” Effie said with exasperated affection.
His new macaw was quite a bit more talkative than his predecessor, Sally, but at the same time he managed to say a great deal less of import.
“But he only says random words, single-syllable ones, at that. He will hear a short word he fancies, and that’s all he’ll say for days. He’s done ‘No’ and ‘Tell,’ and now he’s added—”
“Go!” shrieked the bird.
“You see? One word at a time. You can’t have a proper conversation with him like you could with Sally.”
“I wouldn’t say I ever had a proper conversation with Sally,” Simon said, leaning over and peering into Leander’s cage. “The most that ever happened is she said ‘Hello’—grudgingly—in response to a greeting.”
