A subtle change in the room’s atmosphere caught his attention. The opera singer who had performed at his estate three evenings prior had entered the drawing room, her dark hair elegantly arranged and her burgundy gown cut to showcase her considerable assets.
Several guests turned to stare, and he caught the whispered speculation that always accompanied such women in polite society.
Isabella caught his eye and inclined her head slightly. He returned the gesture with careful neutrality.
“I say,” Ralph said, following his gaze, “isn’t that the Italian songbird who’s been causing such a stir?”
“Signora Marchetti,” Ewan replied. “And yes.”
“She’s quite striking. I don’t suppose you’ve made her acquaintance?”
“Briefly.” Their night togetherhadbeen brief, by his standards.
Ralph opened his mouth to pursue the topic, but movement across the room caught both their attention. Percy had extracted himself from his circle of admirers and was approaching Lady Jane once more, his confidence clearly restored.
“Lady Jane,” he said, reaching for her hand, “might I have the honor of your thoughts on tonight’s performance?”
Before she could respond, he lifted her gloved hand to his lips and pressed a lingering kiss to her knuckles. The gesture itself was within the bounds of propriety, but the theatrical intensity with which he performed it set tongues wagging immediately.
“Lord Stonehall,” Jane said, her cheeks flushing deeper, “you’re very kind.”
Emboldened by her response, Percy placed her hand on his arm and spun her in a graceful circle, as if they were dancing.
The whispers began immediately.
“Good God,” Ewan muttered, setting down his wine glass. “The boy has no sense of boundaries.”
He crossed the room with swift, determined strides, arriving just as his too bold nephew was preparing to twirl Jane again.
“Percy,” Ewan said, his voice carrying the authority of a guardian and a duke, “perhaps you might allow Lady Jane some breathing room.”
His nephew startled, releasing Jane’s hand and stepping back. “Uncle! I was just?—”
“I saw what you were doing.” He turned to the small group. “Lord Norfeld, good evening. Lady Samantha, Lady Jane.”
“Your Grace,” Lord Norfeld replied with a bow. “Always a pleasure.”
“Oh, Your Grace!” Jane exclaimed, her eyes bright with excitement. “Did you see Lord Stonehall’s wonderful dove? It was quite the most creative thing I’ve ever witnessed!”
“Indeed,” Ewan replied diplomatically. “My nephew has a gift for… originality.”
Lady Samantha’s response was notably more reserved. “Your Grace,” she said with a polite curtsy, though her blue eyes were stone cold.
That gave him pause.
His nephew stepped closer to Lady Jane again. “Lady Jane, I do hope you enjoyed the symbolism of the dove. You see, I spent considerable time training it to?—”
“Lord Stonehall,” Lady Samantha interrupted, her voice pleasant but pointed, “I wonder if we might discuss your views on more substantial matters? Perhaps your thoughts on agricultural reform? Or your position on the recent philosophical debates surrounding utilitarianism?”
The young viscount’s face went blank. He opened his mouth, closed it, then rubbed the back of his neck nervously. “Well, I… that is to say… agriculture is certainly… important?”
The silence stretched uncomfortably.
“What my nephew means to say,” Ewan interjected smoothly, “is that he finds the practical applications of philosophical theory particularly fascinating when applied to land management.”
Lady Samantha’s eyes narrowed slightly as she turned her attention to him, and Ewan dismissed the kick in his chest at her pointed attention.
“How convenient that His Grace can interpret Lord Stonehall’s thoughts so precisely. I wasn’t aware that philosophy was among your many talents, Your Grace,” she said.
