Apologize, idiot! Take it back. Don’t be a lion with a thorn in its paw.
But no words came out of his paralyzed mouth.
“Very true, my lord.” Then she curtsied. Properly this time, with all the expected deference and respectfully dipped eyes that his stupid title supposedly warranted, and he hated it. Hated that he had crushed her olive branch with curt words and pessimism. “Thank you for listening.”
And then she was gone.
ChapterEIGHT
“Insufferable man!”
Lottie stormed back toward the house, her quest to find Longbottom to pick his brains forgotten.
What sort of person turned down an apology flat and then took pleasure in insulting a person on the back of it? The sort who was so pompous and arrogant that he thought he was incapable of being in the wrong, that’s who! Lord Wennington was worse than the rude oaf she had first pegged him for. He was a thoroughly nasty piece of work!
She took the back door into the house, then took the servants’ stairs two at a time, so angry she needed to expel some of it before she was fit company to commence her duties calmly. Half an hour screaming bloody murder into her pillow while pacing her room might do the trick. Barefoot because she’d been placed in a small bedchamber next to Lady Frinton’s palatial suite and didn’t dare wake the old dragon up. Not when she had been explicit in her dislike of mornings in general and most especially any that started before nine. Thankfully, as it wasn’t yet eight, Lottie had a decent while to rant with impunity.
But as she approached her bedchamber, a harried maid scurried out of Lady Frinton’s room carrying a tea tray. Unwelcome evidence that the battle-axe was up and Lottie had already failed to attend to her mistress as a good companion should.
Swallowing all her anger left her feeling bloated and tense, but duty called. She pasted on a smile, lightly rapped at the door and, without thinking, sailed inside.
Lady Frinton squealed and clutched her bedcovers to her chest while her much younger sister, Lady Wennington, threw her body over a pile of papers on the mattress.
“Oh, I am so sorry!” Clearly she had interrupted something as now both women wore twin expressions of guilt as they blinked back at her.
“Come in, gal, and shut the bloody door!” Her employer’s gaze went from shocked to narrowed in an instant, whereas Lady Wennington remained half prostrate on the eiderdown. “And for pity’s sake, sit up, Constance! Travers is paid good money to keep her mouth shut and just might come in useful.” As her sister rose and readjusted her clothing, Lady Frinton gestured for Lottie to drag over a chair. “What we are about to tell you is tantamount to a state secret, do you understand?”
“Of course, my lady.” Now that all the apparently secret papers were exposed, Lottie could see that they were invitations. Some were written but most were blank. “My lips are sealed.”
“Good! Because my bloody nephew has eyes like a hawk, his servants are too loyal, and if he gets wind of what we’re up to, our best chance of getting the slippery blighter wed before he’s too old to father any children will be gone.”
“I see.” Although she didn’t. “In what way can I be useful?”
Lady Frinton’s eyes flicked to her sister for permission to elaborate and the other woman nodded. “After years and years of refusing to attend any social occasions in town, my nephew has finally reluctantly agreed to a birthday party here. Asmallbirthday party.”
“I know that,” said Lottie, wondering where this was going.
“He must remain in the belief that all we are planning is an intimate evening soiree involving just a few families on the day of his birth.” She handed Lottie what appeared to be a short guest list.
As there were more invitations scattered across the bed than were needed for the few on the list, it did not take a genius to work out that these ladies had other plans. “I take it that is not the case?”
“Of course not!” Lady Wennington’s voice was hushed but passionate. “How on earth is he supposed to meet and fall head over heels with the right lady in a few measly hours?”
Lady Frinton patted her slightly overwrought sister’s hand in sympathy. “He can’t, Constance, and enough is enough. All his shilly-shallying has to end. If he refuses to investigate all the eligible choices on offer in London, then we have a moral duty to bring London here.” An outrageous comment that calmed the other woman down somewhat. “You have done all you can—but when it comes to women, Guy is useless.”
Lottie wanted to add that he was obnoxious too but bit her tongue.
“That is why we are throwing him a surprise house party, Travers. A proper one. That will last a whole week.”
“Which he will absolutely hate,” added Lady Wennington, nervously fiddling with the pearls encircling her throat. “But what else can I do, Miss Travers, when he has become intractable on the subject of love and I am desperate to see him happy?”
They were matchmaking! Lottie knew enough about the curmudgeonly viscount already to know that he wouldn’t just hate a house party. He would loathe it with every miserable fiber of his being, the rude and insufferable wretch. Which conversely cheered her right up.
“I would not normally go behind Guy’s back like this, but desperate times call for desperate measures.” Lady Wennington was knotting a handkerchief this time. “Especially when my son will be thirty on the fourteenth of September.Thirty.” The way she said his age made him sound decrepit, which the irritant wasn’t. As much as it pained Lottie to think it, for all his many faults, he was a prime physical specimen. And a viscount to boot. In London, and irrespective of his foul character, he would have to beat the debutantes off with a stick. Here… well, the prospect of him being hounded by a herd of hungry husband-hunters while unable to escape was just too funny.
Except, he had such a vile personality, she pitied the fool who caught him. You would have to be a very stupid or a very desperate woman indeed to willingly shackle yourself to that!
“I can assure you that I have tried absolutely everything to get him to find his soulmate, but he refuses to cooperate. If I try to steer him left, I can guarantee he will go right just to spite me. He’s forced me into this.”
