Arthur will be here any moment. How am I to face him after how I behaved last night?
Her guilt had threatened to consume her robbing her of any sleep or peace that she had so desperately needed. She had been unable to get the look of complete and utter desolation that she had seen on his face out of her mind. It had haunted her every waking hour since she had fled the kitchen to the sanctuary of her room, only to find that there was no sanctuary to be found. Her heart pounded in desperate shame for her actions, but her mind, the logical side of her, knew that she had spoken truth, ruthless or not.
Looking at her reflection in the mirror, she could barely meet her own eyes. Her dress was a beautiful creamy color with golden thread at the neck, sleeves, waist, and hem. She had decided to wear the last gift that her father had ever given her and carefully placed the milky glass hairpins and ivory comb into her hair. She dabbed at the dark circles under her eyes but knew that there was not anything that she could do about them. Her one concern was to represent her father well and to make him proud.
Sighing, Cleo arose and left her bedchamber to join the rest of the household downstairs in the main drawing room. The Earl of Dustshore stood by the fireplace with a snifter of brandy in his hand, while the Lady Chapman and Aunt Caroline sipped sherry upon the settee nearby. “Ah, Cleo, just in time. Our guests will be arriving any moment now,” her Aunt Caroline greeted her as she entered the room.
The Earl of Dustshore looked up and smiled with pleasure at the sight of her approaching form. “You look positively radiant,” he murmured as he stepped forward and brought her hand to his lips.
“Thank you, My Lord.”
“I do wish that you would call me Brandon,” he chastened softly.
“This I cannot do, but I thank you once again for your kindness in the allowance.”
Dustshore said no more on the matter and tucked her hand in his arm to lead her over to the empty chair by the fire. “Can I get you something to drink, Miss Wallace?”
Cleo considered the calming effect such a thing might have on her shattered nerves but thought better of it. Were she to become accidently inebriated in the course of the dinner and say or do something that she should not, she would never be able to forgive herself. “Nay, I wish to keep a clear mind this night.”
Dustshore studied her face for a moment. “You are anxious about this evening’s festivities,” he noted rather than asked.
“I simply wish to make my father proud. I would not wish to shame him by comporting myself with anything less than perfection among his former colleagues.”
“I understand,” Dustshore nodded his head solemnly. “I too felt the same way after my father died. You are a wise woman, Miss Wallace. Let no one tell you otherwise.”
“Thank you, My Lord. There are times when I have my doubts. It is good to have such words spoken by another.”
“We all have our doubts, Miss Wallace, but you carry yours beautifully.”
“Thank you,” Cleo murmured and inclined her head, giving him leave to turn away if he so chose, and doing so, he returned to standing by the fireplace to await their guests.
It did not take long before people began to arrive, and the butler showed them into the drawing room to await the dinner gong. Academicians from a wide range of occupations slowly filtered in through the front doors, greeting each other and their hosts in dignified bows and jovial pats on the back. Cleo could just picture her father standing so very comfortable among them, chatting about this discovery or arguing over a translation. A pang of loneliness hit her unexpectedly and she turned away.
“Arthur MacDonald, Earl of Irondale,” the butler announced at the entryway to the drawing room, then stepped back and allowed Arthur to enter.
All eyes turned to Arthur, and the Earl of Dustshore stepped forward to shake his fellow nobleman’s hand. “Irondale, how are you? It has been good to see you so frequently of late.”
“I am well, Dustshore. And ye?”
“I am well.” The Earls stood and spoke, exchanging pleasantries for a time, before the dinner gong was rung, and the assemblage migrated to the dining room.
“Miss Wallace you are here to my left. Irondale, you are to my right,” Dustshore instructed, holding out Cleo’s chair.
Cleo felt her heart constrict in a mixture of emotions as she took her seat opposite the object of her anxiety, careful to avoid his eyes. Arthur took his seat without saying a word. Cleo was not certain if it was her imagination or if she could actually feel the heat from his body across the table. She could still feel his muscled arms wrapped around her torso, his lips upon hers in ardent passion, and her body responding to his as if she had caught fire and been consumed by the flames.
Everyone settled into their seats and turned to their neighbors to make conversation as decorum dictated. Irondale and Dustshore continued their conversation, while Cleo was pleased to be seated by one of her father’s former research partners. She believed that his name was a Mr. Josiah Lyons. “Tell me, Miss Wallace. Do you share your father’s predilection for your mother’s people?”
“I am equally fond of both my father and mother’s people.”
“Ah yes, your father was Scottish. I had nearly forgotten that, he had acclimated so well to the ways of we English. He had nary an accent remaining to him. You yourself were born in England, were you not?”
“Yes, Oxfordshire.”
“Fascinating,” Mr. Lyons commented cheerfully. “A household of three separate peoples and cultures.”
“Indeed,” Cleo replied for lack of a better answer.
“I myself come from a long line of Englishmen dating back to the Norman conquest of 1066,” Mr. Lyons gloated proudly. His eye was caught by the conversation going on between the earls across from them. “My Lord Irondale, you yourself are Scottish are you not?”
