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“Stephen.” If ever a Wentworth had a penchant for charging toward trouble rather than away from it, Stephen was he. So why would he have come north now, when all the best scandal and intrigue was to be found in Town?
Althea picked up her skirts and walked faster, because she also recognized the couple in the gig. William, Viscount Ellenbrook, had brought Miss Sybil Price to call, drat the luck, and Stephen had apparently already made their acquaintance.
Althea met her guests at the foot of Lynley Vale’s front steps.
“What a pleasure on such a fine day,” she said, preparing to apologize for her damp hems and muddy boots. But then, her guests hadn’t thought to send a note, because this wasn’t London. In the country, muddy boots were of no moment and casual calls were a fact of life.
“Lord Stephen,” she went on, “I gather you’ve introduced yourself to Miss Price and Lord Ellenbrook?”
Stephen loved to ride. All the mobility he was denied on two feet became his in the saddle, and he cut an excellent figure in breeches and riding jacket.
“I confess I was tempted to abandon all propriety in the face of Miss Price’s boundless charms,” Stephen replied. “As it happens, Ellenbrook and I are acquainted and introductions were appropriately made. No lapse of decorum hasyetoccurred.”
He sent Miss Price a coy smile and tipped his hat to her. She blushed and laughed while Ellenbrook looked amused.
“One cannot help who one’s brother is,” Althea said. “Stephen, I will escort my guests to the blue parlor. Join us when you’ve located your manners, won’t you?”
“I’ll hand my steed over to the stable lads, and then nothing could keep me from such an abundance of feminine pulchritude.”
He trotted off to the stables, because—as Althea well knew—he was loath to dismount in front of strangers. He carried a pair of canes in a scabbard affixed to his saddle, but the business of getting off the horse and safely to the ground was ungainly.
“Let’s find a tea tray,” Althea said, offering her callers a smile. “I am famished from hiking the lanes, and my cook takes his job very seriously. What a delight to come home to some company.”
She meant that, oddly enough. Compared to the intrigues and heartache at Rothhaven Hall, a simple skirmish with Miss Price, an ambush by Stephen, and some small talk with Ellenbrook would be nearly soothing.
“One must wonder,” Miss Price said as Althea settled her guests in the semi-formal parlor, “why Lord Stephen would abandon the blandishments of Town in spring. He’s a ducal heir, after all. I’m sure he’s much missed by the hostesses.”
Ellenbrook sent Althea a glance, part long-suffering, part humor. “As best I can recall,” he said, “Lord Stephen is an indifferent participant in the London whirl. He accepts a few invitations, but has interests that appeal to him more strongly than do social calls and gossip.”
Not quite true. Stephen loved gossip, though he could be as discreet as a fence post when it mattered. “He accepts the invitations that our sister-in-law, Jane, Duchess of Walden, tells him to accept. Stephen holds her in quite high regard, as do we all.”
Stephen avoided any entertainment that involved dancing or significant walking. Card parties, musicales, boating parties he endured with cheerful bad humor. Balls, rural breakfasts, assemblies he eschewed.
“I will abandon you for a few moments to see about the tea,” Althea said. “This parlor was the last one to be redecorated. Let me know what you think of the appointments.”
Miss Price had taken a seat on the end of the sofa, like a broody hen claiming her nesting box. At Althea’s invitation, she glanced about as if actually seeing the parlor for the first time.
Althea sent a footman to the kitchen and took five minutes to trade boots for house slippers, change her dress, and tidy her hair. By the time she returned to the parlor, the same footman had arrived with a full tray.
“The tray can go on the low table, Timothy. Thank you.”
Monsieur Henri had risen to the occasion, as usual. Cakes, tarts, sandwiches, two teapots, and all the trimmings had been artfully arranged on the tray along with a vase holding three daffodils.
Althea served her guests, finding a blessed sense of normalcy in talk of the weather—lovely—the tea—also lovely—and the benefits of allowing cats abovestairs—not always lovely, but there was Septimus, daring Althea to betray his majesty before callers.
“Where can Lord Stephen be?” Miss Price asked when she’d finished her first cup of gunpowder.
The question was marginally rude, but then, for Miss Price to boast of having met a ducal heir would likely sustain her for days.
“He’s a bit horse-mad,” Ellenbrook said, “as I recall. If the stable lads asked his opinion on a new foal or wanted him to look at a carriage horse going a bit off, he will be lost to us until Sunday.”
“Just so,” Althea said. “A bit horse-mad, a bit machine-mad, a bit book-mad. My brother’s curiosity is never-ending, and his ability to resist the many questions posed by his imagination almost nonexistent. Would you like some more tea, Miss Price? And you never did tell me what you think of this wallpaper.”
Miss Price had not expressed an opinion other than “lovely” for the duration of the visit. She had taken the most predictable seat in the room immediately upon being invited to sit. Her dress was in the first stare of last year’s fashions, and she had not a hair out of place nor a speck of mud upon her hems. She was not pretty in the blonde, blue-eyed sense, but her dark hair and green eyes were attractive, and her figure quite feminine. She dressed fashionably, and her aunt was a formidable ally.
So why did Althea feel a reluctant sense of pity for the young woman?
Stephen did join them, his toilet immaculate, only a single cane in his hand. He nonetheless bowed to Miss Price and took the place beside her on the sofa.
