In fact, she could pretend as though the entire meeting had never happened. If Lady Westwich knew Hannah had been speaking to the earl next door, the baroness would surely attribute far more to the meeting than need be. The last thing Hannah wanted as she was propelled into another fruitless season was to be shoved in Lord Brightstone’s direction.
2
From the warm comfort of his library, Lucien gazed out at the field near the elm tree where he’d been speaking to Hannah. His groundskeeper strolled toward the broken fence, the length of wood for a new slat tucked against the man’s side.
The prickling of an itchy throat and watery eyes had finally abated after Lucien scrubbed at his face and changed his attire. But it wasn’t physical discomfort that lodged itself in his thoughts.
It was her.
Miss Bexley.
The intrepid saver of cats, unusual in a markedly exciting manner. Beautiful and radiant.
“What is amiss with the fence?” A stern voice at Lucien’s side inquired.
He turned to find his mother staring hawkishly at the groundskeeper with a steely gray gaze that missed nothing and found everything wanting. A beam of sunlight shone through the windows, stopping short of her slippered feet as if too afraid to approach her.
“I believe the wood rotted,” Lucien replied easily. It wouldn’t do at all to inform his mother of how Miss Bexley had climbed over the slat, snapping the wood before tumbling to the ground with her skirt flung up to her knees.
Pretty knees though they were—or at least the uninjured one with the fallen stocking. Granted, he was no scoundrel and hadn’t ogled her in her precarious state. But neither was he a saint. And her legs were far too fine to ignore, long and slender, yet perfectly shaped with a sensual curve at her calf and ankle.
“Rotten wood?” Lady Brightstone echoed with a frown. “It was redone last year.”
He gave a non-committal shrug and returned his gaze to the book in front of him.
“I saw you speaking to that Bexley chit,” his mother said in a tone that was anything but casual.
“You mean Miss Bexley,” he corrected.
Lady Brightstone harrumphed. “Have I told you that Lady Townsend is in a delicate way?”
Lucien reread the page and hummed a response that presented no opinion at all. This was merely a catalyst for a conversation they often had.
“She already has three children, two boys and a girl,” Lady Brightstone continued. “One can only imagine being blessed with so many grandchildren.”
It was beyond Lucien why his mother wished for grandchildren when she had scarcely abided him as a child.
“Are you suggesting I make a bid for Miss Bexley’s hand to procure several grandchildren for you?” Even as Lucien spoke, he couldn’t help the curious little thrill of his words.
“Oh heavens, of course not.” His mother put her hand to her chest as though the very idea was enough to send her into an apoplectic fit. “She’s far too provincial to be with a Lambert. But she could be good practice.”
Lucien narrowed his eyes at the sly tone to Lady Brightstone’s nasally drawl. “I fail to understand what you mean.”
She waved her hand airily. “You could flirt with her. Have her be a whetstone to sharpen your wit upon.”
“My wit is plenty sharp,” Lucien muttered. It was perhaps too much so, which set him apart from those around him in an awkward, uncomfortable manner.
“Your wit is dry,” his mother corrected. “And it isn’t as though you would have competition. No one else has shown interest in the hoyden for three seasons. I’d thought perhaps Lord Ranford might take the plunge, but she likely scared him off with all her chatter. Or that raucous laugh.”
“I haven’t paid attention to how other’s seasons transpire,” he replied truthfully. There were far too many comings and goings of this or that person’s interest in the span of a single night to give their activities more than a passing thought, let alone keeping track of an entire season.
“She seems like the kind of girl to gossip.” Lady Brightstone pursed her lips. “A busybody always in everyone else’s business.”
Lucien arched a brow at his mother’s scowl. “How very ironic.”
She shot him a long-suffering glare, apparently catching his meaning. “You must wed, Lucien, to have an heir. No matter the cost.”
A distant banging sounded outside, muted by the windows. The repairs were officially underway.
“I refuse to obtain a wife by using another eligible woman as practice,” Lucien retorted.
“Eligible.” His mother scoffed and needlessly adjusted the deep blue puff of one velvet sleeve. The thing looked overlarge on her thin arms.
“Miss Bexley is a kind and honest lady.” He closed his book and gave his mother a sharp look. The world might cower at her feet, but he was not that kind of man. “I will not hurt her to appease you.”
“You need a wife, and you need an heir,” she replied vehemently. “I don’t care how you procure a reasonable lady to acquire them.”
If his parents’ marriage was any indication of how wedded life could be, it was no wonder he’d never applied himself in the pursuit of a bride. The former Earl of Brightstone had skulked around his wife, desperate to be free of her waspish ways, often finding solace in the arms of various women. Though he had been discreet, Lady Brightstone was well aware of these indiscretions, which had only made the acid of her verbal assaults all the more potent.
But while Lucien would take a life of solace and books over such marital torment, he knew his mother was correct. He would need to wed eventually, regardless of his disinclination to do so. It was, after all, his duty to produce the next Earl of Brightstone.
“Ladies are uninterested in me.” It was a dull argument, but one he was comfortable falling back on. After all, none of those ladies had interested him either.
“Then you need to address why they are not.” His mother indicated his person. “Look at you, wearing a plain yellow waistcoat when blue would bring out your eyes. And your hair flopping about in your face. You were lucky enough to inherit my cheekbones.” She paused to delicately stroke the elegant line of her face. “You ought to let them be seen.”
His mother was far too attentive to her appearance. Her blue day dress was adorned with a costly brooch and matching earbobs, despite a lack of visitors to their country estate since the former earl’s death. Regardless, every morning she rose with the sun and insisted her maid scrape her silver-and-gold hair back into a high chignon with exactly six sausage-like curls framing her face.
He sighed. “I don’t need to primp myself to be put on display, mother.”
“Why not?” she demanded. “Women are expected to do so, as are men.”
“I’m hardly a popinjay.” He scanned the scores of books behind his mother, eager to lose himself in their edifying embrace once more. Honestly, he’d rather subject himself in the scribbling of a dilettante’s attempts at poetry than endure this conversation for much longer.
His mother issued a harsh laugh. “You assuredly are not. But you could at least apply yourself. What about that Bexley hoyden next door?”