Page 39 of Love Wasn’t Built in a Day

He was relieved to see Lady Celicia in deep conversation with Reverend Honeywell. For a moment there he had worried, but it had been a foolish notion. Damian had no intention of ever marrying. It was the one and only thing they agreed on. Their blood was tainted, and it would be cruel to inflict such suffering upon another generation.

From what he could see, Lady Cecilia was nothing like her bold and too outspoken sister either. She was the pattern card of the proper young lady, shy and reserved, speaking only when spoken to and never venturing an opinion that might be considered controversial. He smiled as he realised Hetty and her sister were chalk and cheese, just as he and Damian were.

As it was, Damian was well entertained telling the dowager dreadful stories that had the old lady cackling with delight. Her friend, the Dowager Duchess of Langley, tried and failed not to look amused at their antics. The duke’s displeasure did little to chill the convivial atmosphere, though his frosty expression was much in evidence. Much to Gideon’s relief, he sat between the Dowager Duchess of Langley and Hetty, who was on his left. Whilst he had been obliged to attend to the dowager for the first course, he was now at liberty to speak to Hetty.

He relaxed a degree as he turned to look at her.

“Your brother is in fine form,” she remarked, her tone neutral.

Gideon returned a wry smile. “He always is.”

“Gee-Gee likes him,” she observed, and he remarked the surprise in her voice.

“Damian is very likeable, that’s what makes him so dangerous. One believes everything he says, everything he appears to be, and then…” he shrugged. He ought not to speak of Damian like that, and wondered why he had, for he never did so. Yet his brother had let him down a time too many and he did not want Hetty or her sister to get their fingers burned.

“You are very different.”

“As are you and Lady Cecilia,” he returned, refilling her wineglass for her. As he reached over, the scent of roses and sweet peas reached him from a pretty flower arrangement that adorned the centre of the table. Hetty smiled.

“Yes, I suppose so. Cecilia is the good girl, the biddable one who gives no one any trouble.”

“Unlike you,” he added with a smirk.

Hetty shrugged. “If the cap fits.”

They ate in silence for a little while as the conversation rose and fell around them; the servants moving discreetly and silently, replacing dishes and arranging the table.

“Did you go out of town the other day?”

Gideon glanced at her in surprise.

“I saw you riding back in. As you don’t keep a horse here—” She flushed and looked away from him. “I beg your pardon, that sounded like I was spying on you. It’s none of my business.” She sounded rattled suddenly and turned her attention back to her dinner.

Gideon frowned at his plate. “I went to see my mother.” The words were out before he could think better of them, but it was too late now.

She stared at him, her eyes very wide, and Gideon wondered why that surprised her so. “I do have a mother,” he said, gazing at her thoughtfully.

Hetty laughed, though it was a nervous sound. “Yes, of course you do. Does she live close by?”

“Not far away,” he said, setting down his knife and fork and reaching for his wine, wishing he’d not begun this conversation. What was wrong with him?

“She must be very proud of you, of everything you are doing,” she said, and with such sincerity he turned to stare at her, so startled by her words he gave a sudden bark of laughter.

“Must she?” he demanded, unable to keep the scepticism from his voice. The wine glass was cool in his fingers, claret turning the crystal a deep red as the candlelight caught the facets.

Hetty stiffened, a stubborn glint in her eyes that was now familiar to him. “Well, I would be, at any rate, if you were my son.”

Try as he might, Gideon could not think of a single thing to say. The words seemed to slide under his skin, warming him, unknotting something tight and tangled he’d never been aware of until she’d spoken.

“Then you would be a voice in the wilderness, my lady,” he said when he could speak again. “My brother might break every rule of propriety but in many ways, he’s still considered a more proper gentleman than I, who dirty my hands with work to earn a living.”

“Such nonsense,” she said impatiently, cutting up a piece of chicken with such ferocity one might believe it had mortally offended her. “Being an architect is perfectly respectable, and even if your client is not precisely good ton, I do not see how that reflects upon you. How it can be that a man who gambles and fritters his life away, never lifting a finger to make his own way, is more worthy of the title of gentleman is something I shall never comprehend.”

“I see I am the subject of conversation again,” drawled Damian’s voice from the other end of the table. Gideon sent him a warning look but Damian only grinned.

“What? I do not deny being a worthless article, fit for neither use nor ornament,” he said, leaning back and lifting his wineglass to his lips.

“You are too harsh, Rivington, you are ornamental. No one could deny that,” the Dowager Duchess of Hawkney said soothingly.