I swiveled back, caught in the act of staring at the one man I had determined I would never marry. “Only observing how agreeable the company is.”
“Then it is settled,” Lord Chudley said, though he sounded somewhat strained. “I shall arrange it. I prefer the countryside myself with its quiet follies over London’s noise.”
“A visit to your estate!” Aunt cried. “I’ve heard of the gardens at Chudley Manor.”
As he spoke to her of mazes and trellises and other secretive spots full of delight, I offered vague responses, but my thoughts stayed with Sebastian and his conversation with Lady Anne. Why must she look so interested in him?
I brushed aside the pesky questions to focus on the earl near me.
An invitation like this was no small thing—an earl’s estate, a seal of approval, perhaps even a path to security.
Why did it feel so hollow?
“I say—Miss Grenville—did you not hear a word I said?” Lord Chudley’s voice pulled me back to the present.
“Yes, of course,” I said too loudly as I turned to him.
He finally seemed pleased, like a cat with a bowl of cream. He launched into talk ofThe Marriage of Figaro, while I nodded politely.
The men discussed the orchestra and the crowd, neatly avoiding the opera’s actual themes.
“You ought to ask our Mr. Sinclair,” Lord Chudley whispered to me. “Quite the connoisseur of opera talent, eh?”
My mouth opened but no sound came out.
“They say Mr. Sinclair kept more than ledgers in Calcutta,” Lord Chudley added, swirling his wine. “Word is, a certain opera singer took up residence in his affections. Quite the scandal—if one believes the talk at White’s.”
“I wouldn’t put stock in club gossip, my lord,” I said coolly, though my pulse betrayed me.
The flicker of amusement—and something uglier—among the gentlemen told me all I needed. Sebastian didn’t meet my eyes, only reached for his goblet. The muscle in his jaw jumped again. A clear sign of distress, as I was learning.
“And you, Miss Grenville,” Viscount Strickland said, as if remembering I existed, “surely you adored the costumes of the opera.”
I had never been to an opera, but I would not admit that tidbit to my current audience.
Regardless, I enjoyed music, especially when Freddy played for me, and I had read enough aboutThe Marriage of Figaroto know its premise.
“There’s far more to admire than costumes,” I replied. “Mozart holds a mirror to society. Figaro and Susanna outwit a man who believes he can take what he wishes. It’s revealing—about love and power.”
Silence. A spoon scraped a plate.
“Well, there you have it,” Lord Chudley muttered, his neck red. “Miss Grenville’s keen wit, for our benefit.”
Chuckles. Dismissal. I stared at my untouched pâté.
“Are you one for the opera, Miss Grenville?” another man asked. “I wouldn’t have assumed it.”
“Truthfully, I prefer the sciences. Astronomy. Mathematics.”
Their amusement deepened. Lord Chudley cleared his throat. “A lady need not concern herself too much with such things. But it’s a credit to your mind, Miss Grenville.”
Was this the same man who angled for an invitation to the Herschel home?
“Hear, hear,” added Viscount Strickland, lifting his glass. “Leave science to the men. Logic is our domain.”
More laughter. And I felt plenty of roiling emotion—none of it fit for a polite garden party.
I sat in silence, a fixture among the hedges, while the conversation drifted on without me.
