Joan felt another pang of sympathy for the tight-lipped viscount. But what could she say? Everyone knew about the Duke of Eversley’s obsession with his mistress, though most didn’t bring it up at the dinner table.
“Hated that hymn when I was a vicar, and I hate it now,” Otis murmured. “Never thought of it being used to excuse adultery, though.”
“The Wilde girls would have done,” Lady Bumtrinket mused, pursuing her own train of thought. “The future Duchess of Eversley will need gravitas, powerful relatives, certainly an unsullied reputation, given the blemishes to the family name.”
She turned to Greywick. “You’ll have to wait for such a woman, or your dukedom will be forever besmirched. You might want to smile more, so that fathers don’t shy away. Love divine indeed!” She snorted loudly.
Joan couldn’t stay silent any longer. “Either of my sisters, Betsy or Viola, would have been happy to marry Lord Greywick,” she said firmly. “My father, the Duke of Lindow, would have celebrated either match, as would fathers throughout society should His Lordship choose to ask for their daughters’ hands. Rather, daughter, not daughters, as he’ll only have to offer once because the first whom he asks will accept him, with her father’s blessings.”
Greywick’s raised eyebrow seemed to find some amusement in her tangled speech, but she ignored him, concentrating on Lady Bumtrinket’s beady eyes. Joan’s acting ability came in handy, as it so often did; her voice rang with truth. “Accepting Lord Greywick’s hand in marriage would make any young woman happy and her father positively ecstatic.”
“Not the other way around?” Greywick murmured.
“What happened when he wooed your sisters?” Lady Bumtrinket demanded, clearly taken aback. “Everyone in society knew the viscount was courting them, one after another, not at the same time. He’s so tall, for one thing. You could see him towering over the other dancers.”
“As opposed to me,” Otis said cheerfully. “Thank goodness, my lack of height will allow me to woo in a clandestine fashion.”
“You’d have to ask Lord Greywick,” Joan said to Lady Bumtrinket, turning to give His Lordship a beaming smile. “He lost interest in Viola and Betsy, as I understand it.”
“Hard to believe,” the lady said, squinting at the viscount. “Very hard to believe.”
“Viola was too shy for him, and Betsy too . . . too impudent!” Joan added, since Greywick didn’t seem inclined to support her story, which was entirely untrue. Betsy had fallen in love, and Viola had married quickly, after she was caught kissing a duke in plain sight.
“You’ll have to lower your standards,” Lady Bumtrinket advised the still silent Lord Greywick. “You should think about status, not personality. It doesn’t matter if your wife is shy, as long as she’s got the proper ancestral bloodlines.”
“Thank you for the advice,” the viscount replied. His tone was even, polite.
Joan didn’t like him much, but she had to admit that he had admirable composure.
“I can see that you need guidance,” Lady Bumtrinket said, warming up to the task. “Lady Joan is off the market, since she’s promised to Mr. Murgatroyd—”
“No, she’s not,” Otis hissed.
“But let’s take her as an example,” Lady Bumtrinket said.
“Let’s not,” Greywick intervened.
“Marriage to a woman like Lady Joan would be a disaster for your children,” Lady Bumtrinket said. “Her hair, the Prussian nose . . . such marked traits will carry in the bloodline. If you’ll excuse my plain speaking, Lady Joan,” she added, somewhat belatedly.
Joan felt oddly fascinated. Comments about her dubious parentage were made behind her back, or hissed at her in anger or disgust, but they were rarely stated in public. At her father’s dining table, no less.
Otis intervened. “I believe we should change the subject. Did everyone hear that the first mail coach ran successfully between Bristol and London?”
“I would not care to correspond with any person residing in Bristol,” Lady Bumtrinket said with a sniff.
“I would be honored to marry Lady Joan,” Greywick said, flatly contradicting the old woman in a ringing voice.
“No, you wouldn’t,” Joan retorted.
But she smiled, because it was a kind gesture. He probably thought she was mortified to hear the truth about her scandalous birth spoken out loud. He had no idea how little such comments mattered to her.
“Lady Joan is marrying Murgatroyd,” Lady Bumtrinket said. She was obviously unused to being challenged. Her cheeks turned a nice shade of puce, and her voice rose to something near a bellow. “Your comment indicates how little you understand the world of polite society. You cannot marry Lady Joan, or anyone like her.”
“I shall marry whomever I choose,” Greywick said softly but with menace.
The expression in his eyes would have made Joan think twice, but Lady Bumtrinket glared back. “I am an upright pillar of the very society with whom your children will be eager to mingle, but they won’t be—”
“If you’ll forgive my plain speaking,” he retorted, cutting her off, “my children will mingle with whomever they choose, even more so if they grow up to be half as beautiful as Lady Joan.”
Lady Bumtrinket opened her mouth to squawk a reply, but whatever she meant to say was broken off by a scraping noise. All heads turned to the head of the table.
The Duchess of Lindow was on her feet. “Great-Aunt Daphne, I understand that someone of your years needs to retire at an early hour. I shall escort you to your bedchamber.”
Joan didn’t allow herself to smile. Her stepmother was not imposing—yet she was a duchess, every inch of her. And now, as Her Grace walked from the other table and stood beside Lady Bumtrinket’s chair, the lady rose with only a muttered grumble.
“Do excuse us,” the duchess said, giving Otis, Joan, and Greywick a smile. “My aunt unfortunately must leave us early in the morning to continue her journey; we shall miss her company.”
The lady opened her mouth but shut it hastily after a glance from her great-niece. The duke escorted both ladies out the door.
“The woman is a fiend,” Greywick said. “I consider that a factual statement rather than an insult.”
“You mustn’t pay too much attention to Lady Bumtrinket’s advice,” Joan said, feeling awkward. Obviously, he had no interest in marrying her, so the example was irrelevant, but her great-aunt wasn’t very compassionate.
“I would not term it ‘advice,’” he said. “Insolence, better tolerated from an irritated coachman than a dinner companion.” Greywick wore his most aristocratic expression, but this time Joan sympathized.
“I find it difficult to imagine Lady Bumtrinket as a coachman—or would that be coachwoman?” Otis commented.
“In a better world, ladies would be coachwomen,” Joan said, eager to change the subject.
“Unlikely,” Greywick said. He still had a forbidding look about him.
She gave him a frown. “Not unlikely but inevitable, I’d say. The world is changing, and Lady Bumtrinket clings to an antiquated past.”