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‘You may not have to rely on the Season to find the right young lady after all,’ she added, sounding suddenly not at all dithery.
Does she mean what I think she means?
‘You do not think that Bath might prove...productive?’ Giles did not turn to look for Laurel, but it took a conscious effort.
‘Oh, Lord Revesby...I hardly know what to say...’ The wretched female was back to dithering and fluttering. He looked at her, not speaking, waiting for her to come to the point. He was not certain whether she was playing games with him or was thrown into confusion when she had to articulate perfectly rational thought processes. Lady Cary gestured towards the dance floor. ‘Generally Bath is not much valued as a Marriage Mart. There are young ladies here, of course, but many of them do not have the connections I imagine you require in a bride, or they have reason of their own for not wishing for matrimony.’
‘Novice nuns?’ he asked lightly.
Lady Cary tittered. ‘Many are young ladies devoted to an invalid relative. Of course, there are those who find themselves disinclined to marry. Dear Laurel...’
‘You are not serious, ma’am? Laurel does not wish to marry?’ He could understand that she would not want to marry him, or that her prospects had been limited by living in the country, but to discover that she might be irrevocably against marriage was a serious facer.
They had reached their seats and Lady Cary settled herself, unfurled her fan, fussed with her skirts and took her time about answering him. ‘So she says.’ She wafted the painted crescent back and forth briskly, the breeze welcome as he caught the tail of it on his heated skin. ‘She seems sincere, but her experience with men is, I believe, limited, the dear girl.’ She turned to face him fully, her cheeks pink, a look of determination on her face. ‘But if she does not know her own mind, I think that you, of all people, are the man to direct it, Lord Revesby. After all, you know her so well and it would be such a suitable match.’
* * *
‘We have flowers.’ Phoebe stood back to admire the half-dozen bouquets arranged on the dining-room table the next morning. ‘Some quite lovely bouquets. One for each of us from Sir Hugh.’
‘Of which yours is somewhat the finer,’ Laurel teased, inspecting them.
Phoebe tutted and shook her head in reproof. ‘This one is for me from General Mitchell, which is probably in gratitude for saving him from the clutches of Mrs Winbourne who is determined to make him husband number four. Dreadful, encroaching woman. One for you from Mr Pittock, the rural dean. I do not think him an eligible suitor in any way, dearest.’
‘He is very odd,’ Laurel agreed. ‘I fear that my remaining awake during his interminable lecture on medieval font covers, when we were sitting out and he trapped us in the corner, may have overexcited him.’ She prodded the sheaf of flowers with one finger. ‘I do feel that evergreens and white lilies gives a most funereal effect.’
‘And the remaining bouquets?’ Phoebe turned over the cards attached. ‘One for each of us from Lord Revesby. How kind.’
They were charming, but modest, arrangements, exactly right as a gesture of thanks for the dances the night before, Laurel thought, grudgingly granting Giles approval for good taste.
And another good point, bother him.
‘Shall I arrange them all? I can spread the funereal arrangement about amongst the other flowers which should cheer it up.’
She rang the bell for vases. ‘I had best write notes of thanks. I do hope that does not encourage Mr Pittock. I really cannot see me as an ornament to the deanery!’
Phoebe turned from the window where she had been looking out on to the passing traffic in Laura Place. ‘There is no need to write to Lord Revesby, Laurel.’
‘No? But would that not be rather rude? However little I like him, I have no excuse for a snub.’
Or to give him cause to think I care enough to attempt one.
‘I only meant that he is walking towards the front door this minute. We can thank him in person.’ Phoebe sounded delighted. Whatever conversation she and Giles had had last night, it certainly seemed to have removed any lingering prejudices about him, despite Laurel telling her all about the reason for his absence from the country for nine years.
Which is more than I can say half an hour on the dance floor did for my prejudices.
Finding some things to admire in the adult Giles was more than infuriating, she found. She wanted to dislike him comprehensively, to tell herself that, after all, she had had a lucky escape in not marrying him.
What did Giles want now? They had exchanged some rather prickly conversation and a set of dances, had met without an exchange of blows, actual or verbal: there seemed to be a truce, in other words. Surely the thing now would be to avoid each other as much as possible and be coolly civil if circumstances forced them to meet. But Giles was rapping the door knocker this minute, not politely raising his hat from the far side of the street, so a
meeting was imminent and must be dealt with. At least they were not in public.
‘Lord Revesby, my lady.’ Nicol, Phoebe’s butler, apparently saw no need to enquire first whether his mistress was at home to the Earl—or whether Laurel needed some time to compose herself before facing him.
‘Lord Revesby, how good of you to call.’ Phoebe was positively beaming at him for some reason. ‘We were about to write to thank you for our delightful bouquets. So thoughtful.’ She sent Laurel a look that plainly said, Say something! and gestured to a chair. ‘Please, do sit down. May I offer you tea? Or coffee, perhaps?’
‘Neither, thank you, Lady Cary. I called hoping that Lady Laurel might join me for a stroll through Sydney Gardens.’ He gestured towards the window. ‘It is very pleasantly warm.’
Any young lady in her right mind would be delighted to stroll with such a handsome, intelligent and altogether pleasing gentleman. Which presumably meant that she was not in her right mind because the very idea of being alone with Giles produced a strong feeling of panic. Which was unfortunate, because blind panic stopped what little was functioning in her brain from coming up with a single excuse for declining.
