Lord Kendrickson thought for a moment. “Perhaps that is not the right word. He is not so much serious as… cautious? I’m not even sure that is the right word.”
Patience felt herself wishing to toe-tap. Whatwasthe right word?
“Well, I suppose you will come to your own judgments. I will say that he has always been a good friend. When we were at Eton, he did not shun me on account of my shabby clothes or lack of funds.”
“Did others do so?” Patience asked.
“Some did. But Stanford and Radler are both bricks. Stanford even gave me some of his shirts and neckcloths when I was hard-pressed.”
So that was what she knew so far. Lord Stanford might be serious or cautious, but those might not be the right words, and he was a brick who did not mind giving away his clothes.
She really would have to come to her own judgment. She could not imagine that judgment would be anything but exceedingly pleasing. She had sharp and quick instincts, and they told her that she and Lord Stanford would get on famously.
Despite any mistaken early hesitations he might have displayed.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Marcus was not entirely sure where his thoughts were going. They were usually so regulated and traveled the paths he directed them to do.
Just now, his eyes kept drifting in the same direction. In the direction of Lady Patience. He kept arguing with himself and attempting to turn his eyes toward Lady Alice, or anybody else, really.
His eyes were entirely defiant.
There was something about Lady Patience that demanded his attention. She was so remarkably pretty—her big expressive eyes, her perfectly proportioned features, her piles of brown hair that glinted shades of auburn in the candlelight. Then those lips, full and yet there was a delicacy to them. Perhaps it was the slightest upward curve at the edges that was striking.
But none of that was quite it. She was soalive. That was it.
Everything about her was expressive. Her eyes glinted, her smile flashed. There was a confident ease about her.
He could see very well that every gentleman who’d danced with her had enjoyed the experience. He supposed she would be very popular, perhaps even named the season’s diamond.
There was something irritating in that, though it was illogical. He did not like illogic. He did not like to think he could suffer from such a state. It might even be dangerous.
He could not allow anything, or anyone, to upset his carefully laid plans. At such a critical moment in his life, he could not throw over all of his judicious conclusions for some fleeting attraction. Surely that was what it was.
His cautiously laid plans would serve him well in the future, and he must always keep that at the forefront of his thoughts.
But then, it could very well turn out that Lady Patience was suited to him. In fact, he found himself hoping so. He just must guard against allowing his opinions to get ahead of the facts. There was an equal chance she was not suited to him.
Whatever the case might be, he was to begin to discover it in moments. He approached the lady, who stood with her father and her aunt.
“Your Grace, Lady Marchfield, Lady Patience,” he said, bowing.
“Stanford, is it?” the duke asked.
“The Earl of Stanford,” Lady Marchfield said before he could answer. “I have been acquainted with the earl for a number of years and I find him everything a gentleman should be.”
“That is very kind, Lady Marchfield,” Marcus said.
“Is it kind, though?” the duke said. “Lady Misery here generally approves of everything glum and uninteresting. That is not you, I hope?”
“Roland!” Lady Marchfield exclaimed.
“I hope not, Your Grace,” Marcus said, for lack of any cogent sort of reply to such a statement.
“My father jests,” Lady Patience said.
“Do I?” the duke asked.
