AllFreeNovel
Share Us
8
David stepped outside, taking in the guests busily eating his food and ordering his servants about. House parties, as a rule, required a certain amount of forced intimacy between host and guest. He eschewed such informality. David neither cared nor wanted to know most of these people any more than he already did. Which was to say, not at all.
He stretched his neck, hoping to loosen his cravat.
Aunt Pen had made the guest list, but he was sure Lady Foxwood had had input because of the presence of Lord and Lady Carstairs. Carstairs was a pleasant sort, but he and David were only slightly acquainted. It was Beatrice who was close to Lady Carstairs, which made him seriously consider the intelligence of his future duchess.
If Lord and Lady Carstairs were in possession of one brain between them, it would be a miracle on par with a virgin birth. Attractive and wealthy, the newly married couple seemed to exist in their own world where intellect wasn’t noted or required. He wasn’t even sure what to call such a match. A marriage of equals?
Doubtless due to the influence wielded by Lady Foxwood, the other young ladies in attendance were all lovely, but not so attractive that Lady Beatrice’s beauty would be eclipsed. His eyes were drawn to the odd movements of a willowy brunette, seemingly oblivious to a servant carrying a tray of poached chicken. She shuffled forward before nearly upending the tray. Smiling, she apologized profusely to the shaken footman.
David’s lips formed their usual scowl. No one should have to apologize to a servant. It wasn’t necessary. His father had assured him it wasn’t appropriate when David had made the mistake of apologizing to a groom at the age of ten.
There was something vaguely familiar about the young lady, yet David was positive they’d never met. As the brunette gingerly made her way over to Aunt Pen and a woman he recalled to be Lady Richardson, David was struck by how lovely the girl was.
Lady Foxwood had certainly not approved this guest.
His observation was interrupted by the arrival of Lord Foxwood, who came toward David while rubbing his hands together, likely already contemplating his daughter’s elevation to duchess.
“Your Grace.” He bowed.
Foxwood was a trim, neat gentleman clothed in a coat of walnut brown. His lean features and narrow nose spoke of centuries of refinement. The air of superiority hovering about his compact form had been honed from inheriting a title which was one of the oldest and most prestigious in England. Though close in age to David’s late father, Foxwood appeared years younger.
Horace and Foxwood had been close acquaintances, sharing many of the same interests. It had seemed logical to seek him out when David determined he was ready to wed. But it didn’t mean he and David were friends. They weren’t.
“Lord Foxwood, welcome to The Barrow. I trust your journey was without incident.”
“Indeed, Your Grace. And informative. I can see why your father sought the small parcel of land just to the south of your estate. It would be much easier to build a bridge spanning the river at its narrowest point than to go around and build an entire stretch of road.”
How like Foxwood. David did not need to be reminded of every benefit to wedding Beatrice, as he’d already decided to offer for her; he just hadn’t done so yet. He found it amusing to watch Foxwood and his wife twist in the wind, breathlessly awaiting the announcement. David felt no need to reassure Foxwood nor explain that he meant to build a bridge suitable for a locomotive, with a great deal of rail, complete with a station. The idea had been Estwood’s, and it was a good one. Estwood was rarely wrong when it came to investing in industry. The parcel of land which was part of Beatrice’s dowry included the area where the river narrowed.
“A bridge is preferred.” David decided to toy with Foxwood. The man was far too sure of himself and his daughter’s charms. “But not necessary.”
Foxwood’s perfect little mustache quivered at David’s noncommittal response. “Of course, Your Grace.” A charming smile, one patently false, broke across Foxwood’s lips. “I quite agree.”
“Your Grace.” Lady Foxwood floated to them in a cloud of luxurious silk and floral perfume. “I see Foxwood has found you.” Her hand slid easily down her husband’s arm with practiced affection. The silvery-blonde hair twisted atop her head was a shade lighter than her daughter’s, but otherwise Lady Foxwood could easily be mistaken for Beatrice’s older sister. Her sophisticated golden beauty was a perfect foil for her husband. The two reminded David of a matched pair of Pomeranians, carefully styled and coiffed to hide their calculating nature.
David detested small dogs.
“I must thank you again, Your Grace, for your escort as Beatrice and I perused the shops the other day.”
“It was my pleasure, Lady Foxwood.” The ‘other day’ had been a month or so ago, and Lady Foxwood had already thanked him numerous times. Her intention was to remind David he’d since neglected to call on Beatrice. In his estimation, calling on Beatrice would not only be unnecessary but a test of his patience. An entire afternoon with Lady Foxwood and her daughter had been an incredible waste of time.
Except for seeing Andromeda Barrington.
His eyes drifted from Lady Foxwood to the less-than-graceful young lady he’d noticed earlier. She was still conversing with his aunt, hands clasped politely. There was something about her that reminded David of Andromeda. The young lady’s hair was a shade darker, her bosom more generous. And Andromeda didn’t stumble like a blind man while hurling insults at dukes, but still—
Beatrice was suddenly thrust before David by her mother, demanding his attention.
She dipped into a graceful curtsy, moving her shoulders forward so the valley between her ample breasts deepened. A practiced move meant to draw a gentleman’s gaze to her bosom.
While David could only see the tops of her breasts rising above her neckline, he assumed her bosom to be as perfect as the rest of Beatrice. The sun hit the golden strands of her hair, giving the appearance of a halo around her stunning features.
Her lashes fluttered gently against her cheeks, like the wings of a tiny bird, as she straightened. Pink rose petal lips held just a hint of a pout. He’d spoken to her exactly three times before her arrival yesterday, most of which had been during their conversation at Madame Dupree’s.
“Lady Beatrice, you look lovely.”
“Thank you, Your Grace.” She cast her eyes down in a demure fashion.
