Page 9 of Love Wasn’t Built in a Day

Hetty blinked, rather astonished. “And you think I can supply it?”

The dowager regarded her appraisingly. “I don’t know if you can or you can’t, but we may as well see what you make of it all, eh?”

“Well, I am deeply flattered that you believe I have anything to offer, but won’t Mr and Mrs King object?” Nevermind Mr Bramwell when he found out, she thought uneasily.

“They’ll accept what’s good for them if they wish for my help,” she replied with a snort.

As there was little Hetty could say in reply to that, she returned the book she had been reading to the shelves and moved to sit by the dowager.

“It is just Mr and Mrs King who are coming then?” she asked belatedly, a sudden knot of apprehension forming in her belly as the indistinct murmur of voices sounded outside the library door.

“Eh? Oh, no. Didn’t I say? Mr Bramwell is coming too.”

“No, you didn’t say,” Hetty replied, her nerves leaping. It would have been one thing to aggravate the fellow from a distance, but if he thought she was interfering in his hotel… Oh, well. He’d just have to lump it.

Howard escorted the small party into the room.

“Your grace, Mr and Mrs King, and Mr Bramwell.”

Mr Bramwell’s eyes shot to hers the moment he entered the room, and a charge of something fraught and unsettling tensed between them. Hetty let out a breath, telling herself she was being a ninny. He was just a man. A rather impatient and occasionally ill-mannered man, but nothing to get flustered about.

Yet she had the distinct impression her presence had disconcerted him too. Far from being reassuring, it only made her increasingly on edge.

Think calm thoughts, she counselled herself, too self-aware not to comprehend the danger. If she was rattled or anxious, she could become defensive. It was an all too small a step from there to provoking and self-destructive.

Introductions were made, and the group gathered around the large table, which was habitually strewn with books and newspapers but had been tidied for the meeting.

All eyes turned to Mr Bramwell, who hesitated, staring directly at Hetty.

“My lady, I’m sure you have more interesting things to attend to.”

“No, she don’t,” the dowager said briskly. “Hetty has a fine eye for detail, and she knows what’s a la mode better than any of us.”

Hetty struggled to keep her face impassive as she saw a series of emotions flicker in Mr Bramwell’s eyes, from surprise to annoyance and then to resignation. He glanced at her again and Hetty could not help herself. She quirked one eyebrow at him.

His jaw tensed.

Amusement simmered inside her, but she forced it down, determined to pay attention and prove to Mr Bramwell that she could be useful. Listening attentively, she regarded the plans that Mr Bramwell laid out for them, impressed by his explanation of the build and the progress that had been made to date.

Next, the dowager requested to see the drawings for the interior architecture of the building.

Hetty smiled with delight as she took in the plans he presented for a splendid ballroom suite.

“How elegant it is,” she said at once, glancing up, and a little burst of pleasure unfurled inside her as she saw the appreciation warm Mr Bramwell's usually cold grey eyes.

“Thank you, my lady.”

Hetty turned her attention back to the plans before he could not see the colour rising to her cheeks and studied the drawing once more.

“It is certainly the finest ballroom anywhere this side of London, perhaps anywhere in the country,” the dowager said with surprising animation.

The conversation carried on around her, as Hetty imagined how it would look in reality, what it might be like to spend an evening in such surroundings. Mr Bramwell went to remove the plan and replace it with another, but Hetty stopped him before she could think better of it, placing her hand on the paper to keep it in place. She frowned down at a detail on the floor plan.

“Oh,” she said, straightening. Belatedly realising she had made the regretful sound aloud, she looked up to see four sets of eyes gazing at her with interest. No. Three with interest, one with a warning glint that was unmistakable.

“You perceive a problem, my lady?” Mrs King asked her with interest.

“Oh, well, I don’t know that it’s a problem as such,” she prevaricated, increasingly aware of the weight of Mr Bramwell’s scrutiny.