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11
“Lady Andromeda, you’re looking lovely.”
“Good morning, Mr. Estwood,” Romy said to the attractive gentleman watching her from the bottom of the stairs. “I overslept, I’m afraid.”
She’d slept terribly, largely due to her host. How like Granby to wedge his enormous, arrogant form into the privacy of her bed, invading her thoughts with a host of improper ideas. Romy already possessed a vivid imagination and needed no assistance on that score. Curiosity about such things was fed by her knowledge of Elysium and what went on behind the confines of the velvet covered walls.
“You came down just in time, my lady,” Estwood assured her. “I slept late myself. Have you had breakfast?”
“A tray in my room.”
Estwood stood waiting. “Then shall I escort you out to the lawn? The first game of bowls has already begun.”
“I would be happy for your escort.” Romy liked Mr. Estwood, as did several of the other ladies in attendance. Only the Foxwoods seemed dismayed at his presence.
“Splendid.” He held out his arm with a grin.
Lord Foxwood, in particular, had been rude to Estwood. The earl had gone out of his way to exclude Estwood from the conversation flowing about the dinner table the night before, intentionally making comments to rile him. Through it all, Estwood had maintained a determined politeness, refusing to allow Foxwood to goad him into losing his temper and perhaps prove Foxwood’s point that Estwood wasn’t a gentleman.
“Are you a player of bowls, Lady Andromeda?” Estwood had lovely eyes, like pale gray mist on a spring morning, except for the ruthlessness gleaming about the edges. But Romy would ignore that for now. She often saw the same look in her brother Leo’s eyes. A determination to succeed at all costs despite the Foxwoods of the world.
“I do,” she replied. “My father taught me when I was no more than a child. It was a favorite pastime of his. We even had teams composed of the staff of Cherry Hill, our estate in the country, though it was against the rules.” She gave him a sideways glance. “Don’t tell on me, Mr. Estwood.”
“I would never, my lady,” he assured her, patting the hand tucked securely in his arm.
“I found it all perfectly normal when I was a child. We Barringtons are a bit eccentric. Do you play bowls, Mr. Estwood?”
“Marginally. It isn’t a game I played as a child. I’d no time for such things.”
Romy had overheard Lady Foxwood whispering to Mildred after the ladies left the table for the drawing room. Estwood’s father had been a village blacksmith. Lady Foxwood, in a horrified voice, could not countenance why a duke would invite such a person to dine at The Barrow. If he were ever to approach her, Lady Foxwood cautioned, she must cut him directly, no matter how rude it might seem.
Romy thought Lady Mildred, quickly approaching thirty and plain of face, would be fortunate to snag Estwood.
“Perhaps you can offer suggestions on improvement, should I choose to play, Lady Andromeda? I promise to be a good student.” His voice lowered flirtatiously, his pale eyes gleaming back at her like the surface of a mirror.
“I would be delighted to show you the finer points of bowls, Mr. Estwood.” She had no qualms about Estwood not having a proper pedigree. He was attractive. Intelligent. But there was no humming against her skin when he touched her. No delicious sensation curling around her spine. Not even a modest display of the feelings Granby invoked in her.
Most troubling.
Holding Estwood’s arm, Romy followed him off the terrace to an area set some distance from the house. A great expanse of lawn greeted her as well as a perfectly maintained green for bowls.
“I didn’t realize the duke had such a proper green. I think you must be teasing me, Mr. Estwood. You are obviously a frequent visitor to The Barrow. Surely you play much better than you’ve led me to believe. You seek to take advantage of my good nature.”
“Am I succeeding?” The friendly glint in his eyes shifted, deepening into something Romy didn’t wish to encourage.
“Not in the least.” Romy lifted a brow.
Estwood laughed softly. “I find you very direct, Lady Andromeda. It is a trait I don’t often see in young ladies.”
“So I’ve been told. A fault of mine. Now, I think you must confess as to your abilities in regard to the game before us.”
“I never played until recently. The old duke wouldn’t have allowed such a thing.” He hesitated, the small brackets on either side of his mouth deepening as a frown crossed his lips. “We didn’t get on,” Estwood said slowly, choosing his words carefully. “He was very particular regarding the guests who came to The Barrow.”
Granby’s father hadn’t approved of Estwood despite his friendship with the man’s son. “I’m sorry if he treated you poorly, Mr. Estwood.”
A light flush crept up Estwood’s neck; was he embarrassed by her show of empathy?
He gave a careless shrug. “I was one of many, my lady. There were those who suffered much more.” Estwood’s gaze was focused on the far side of the green where Granby stood.
