Page 22 of A Symphony for the Earl

In his apartments, Richard changed into evening dress with the help of his valet. John had served his father, and after the eighth earl’s untimely death, he had taken his son into his capable hands.

The occasion was informal, so Richard selected a coat of charcoal superfine with a jacquard waistcoat in subtle blue and gray, and buff pantaloons. Meanwhile, John polished his Hessians to their usual superb finish and held out a snowy muslin cravat.

“The Royal or Waterfall, sir?”

“The Royal, I think.” He could tie his own quite skillfully, but the valet took great pride in fashioning the complicated folds. Afterwards, John gave the gray coat a final brushing and helped him shrug into the close-fitting design.

“There is no need to wait up, John.”

“But, sir…the boots…” he moaned.

“A boot jack will suffice.” Richard ignored the pained look in his direction. “I will take care not to scratch them, rest assured.”

Upon descending the stairs, he found his mother and sister in the foyer. Miss Rafferty was nowhere to be seen. He pulled on bone-colored kid gloves as they waited. At five minutes past eight, she appeared at the top of the staircase.

Lady Amelia smiled approvingly. “There you are, dear. Very pretty.” He glanced up. His ward was stunning. The soft blue of the velvet gown flattered her pale skin and strangely light eyes and the aquamarine drops which lay against her neck were magnificent. The décolleté of the dress was more modest than most in fashion but still clung to delectable breasts. As it had outside Merrick House, his pulse reacted—a quickening that traveled straight to his loins. The very disconcerting and purely primal reflex had no place where Miss Rafferty was concerned.

She was far from his usual tastes. He preferred rather icy, elegant blondes who understood the world and avoided the drama often associated with love affairs. No matter how attractive, Miss Rafferty was his ward, and thoroughly headstrong and high-tempered to boot. That had to be the end of it.

As she descended, he looked up and noticed Octavia peeping over the banister, Miss Ernest close at hand.

“Well, Scamp, what is your opinion? Shall we take the party by storm?”

Octavia clapped loudly. “Oh, yes! Valentina and Fiona look so beautiful, I’m sure someone will propose tonight. Maybe the prince himself.”

He shook his head. “Word has it Prinny is laid low with a head cold.”

Octavia’s face fell, then brightened. “Perhaps Viscount Atterbury, then?”

“Someone has been listening at doors, I see,” her sister scolded.

Richard merely laughed and accompanied the ladies to the door. He thoroughly approved of Valentina’s choice: pale-yellow sarsenet with a gauze overskirt. His mother preferred subtle shades befitting her age and wore lilac silk.

Outside, Jerome sat on the top perch of a closed carriage, holding the reins to four coal-black horses. The red-and-gold Seldon coat of arms—a stag facing a rampant lion—emblazoned the side of the impressive black vehicle.

A footman helped Lady Amelia and Valentina onto the vehicle, while Richard offered his hand to Miss Rafferty, entirely aware of her long fingers and the delicate wrist underneath her silk glove. Her eyes flickered up to his; the celadon of her irises contained a few flecks of amber. She stumbled, and as he steadied her, his glove brushed the bare skin of her arm. She shivered slightly, and a spasm of desire shot through his very core.

Once Miss Rafferty was settled inside, he followed and sank into the thick cushions beside his mother. Tapping on the roof, he wondered what the devil was wrong with him. The coach sprang forward into the night.

Chapter Eight

Miss Rafferty Is Introduced

“Fiona, are you interested in the writing of Mr. Coleridge?” Lady Amelia asked. “I confess I am not familiar with the man.”

“I think ‘Christabel’ to be the most confusing drivel,” she answered frankly. “‘The Rime of the Ancient Mariner’ is at least interesting. But then, I do not care to mix morals and poetry. Wordsworth is far more to my taste, daffodils and all.”

“Richard finds fault with all poets, except perhaps for the sonnets of his beloved Shakespeare,” Valentina teased.

“Indeed? Do you also enjoy Shakespeare’s plays, Lord Seldon?”

The earl sat across from her, next to Lady Amelia. In such a closed space, she was very aware of his height and breadth. The earl’s long legs, clad in tightly fitted buff pants and gleaming black boots, were barely an inch from her skirts.

“I do,” he answered. “Especially the histories. Henry V in particular, and Julius Caesar. Shakespeare has a remarkable understanding of the best and worst in men and women.”

“I have a tattered copy of Antony and Cleopatra,” she admitted, “so often read that it will soon disintegrate.”

“A history with a large dose of romance.” He smiled. “But an intriguing story.”