Mrs. Renshaw turned her head, surprise or something similar flickering in her eyes. “Careful, or you’re going to spend the rest of your life apologizing for her.”
As they moved forward, he kept his body close to hers. She smelled of flowers and spice, and the scent was wholly intoxicating. “Unless I can find a way to avoid her presence.” He continued to speak in a low tone. “I’d planned to remain at Witney Court through the holidays, but I now wonder if I ought to return to London.” He tipped his head toward her. “When are you returning to town?”
Her eyes narrowed slightly. “In January. The Creightons were kind enough to invite me for the holidays.”
Then he didn’t want to leave either. “You present a compelling reason to stay,” he said with a smile.
She hesitated, then spoke measuredly. “Please don’t make your decisions based on me.”
“I’m flirting,” he murmured. “How am I doing?”
They entered the dining room, and she sent him an amused glance. “Well enough that I was completely ensnared.”
He helped her into her chair, which was to Mrs. Creighton’s left. Gregory was pleased to see that he would be seated to Mrs. Renshaw’s left. He would thank his hostess, but then that would draw attention to the fact that he was quite desperately interested in spending time with Mrs. Renshaw. As he pushed her chair toward the table, he allowed his fingertips to brush the tops of her bare collarbones.
When he sat beside her, he noted a faint blush in her cheeks. Had he caused that?
Throughout dinner, he could tell Mrs. Renshaw and Mrs. Creighton were very close friends and had to have been for some time. He was again struck by a vague similarity between them, but he recalled a pair of lads from Oxford who looked as though they were brothers when, in truth, they had just been friends for years. Perhaps if you spent enough time with someone, you began to look a bit alike.
Gregory was particularly glad that his brother and sister-in-law were seated at the other end of the table on the opposite side. Clifford sat on their host’s left, and Susan was on his other side. She did send occasional glances toward Mrs. Renshaw, her gaze shadowed with consternation, as if she were trying to strategize how to get closer to the woman.
At one point, he leaned toward Mrs. Renshaw and whispered, “Will you really put in a word for my sister-in-law?”
“I didn’t say that I would.”
No, she hadn’t. She’d been very clever with her words. “You continue to astonish me,” he murmured with a smile. “I daresay you’d best be wary of her trying to corner you after dinner.”
“Never fear, I have a plan,” she responded softly, her eyes glinting with mischief.
“Do tell.”
“We’ll play a game that will likely take as long as you gentlemen are lingering over your port. However, if I may be so selfish as to ask that you don’t linger too long, I would be appreciative.”
“I will ensure we drink with haste. What sort of game?”
“One involving embroidery. Each player has one minute to stitch a representation of a word everyone else must guess. Something like ‘tree’ or ‘rabbit.’”
“That could be very simple or incredibly difficult, depending on the word.”
“And one’s embroidery skill. Mine is atrocious. But I can typically get by with ‘tree’ or ‘flower’ or ‘house.’ Do you happen to know if Lady Witney possesses any skill with a needle?”
“I do not. I am sorry I’m going to miss this.”
“Well, if you joined us, you’d have to play. Those are the rules.”
Gregory wasn’t sure Susan would go along with this scheme. “And if someone refuses?”
“They typically don’t, but I imagine we’d try to coerce them. Failing that, we’d make them move to another part of the room so as not to interfere.”
Susan wouldn’t like that either. “I’ve no idea what Lady Witney will do, but it sounds as though you have things well in hand.”
As the final course was served, Gregory wondered if he might be able to take Mrs. Renshaw onto the terrace later. It was bloody cold tonight as they neared mid-December, but he wanted just a few moments alone with her.
No, he wanted much more than that. To that end, an idea had formulated in his mind—a wild, shocking, sure-to-be-rejected scheme—that he couldn’t dispel. He only hoped he didn’t horrify Mrs. Renshaw with the suggestion.
Dinner drew to a close, and the ladies rose to adjourn to the drawing room. Gregory helped Mrs. Renshaw from her chair and wished her luck with the game—and, more importantly, with keeping his brother’s wife at bay.
After the women left, Creighton invited Gregory to take the now-empty seat to his right. Over port, he described the refurbishments he had planned, including the addition of an orangery.
Clifford jumped into the conversation at every opportunity, to the point that Gregory stopped trying to say anything. Creighton seemed to notice this, his expression patient with a mild, almost imperceptible edge of frustration.
Mr. Wadleigh, the constable, sat to Gregory’s right. In his forties, he sported thick graying hair with even thicker brows. Speaking so only Gregory would hear him, he said, “His lordship has a great deal to say. How do you ever get a word in?”
“It can be difficult. Occasionally, I just abandon hope.”
“We all certainly miss your father around here.” Wadleigh’s tone was sympathetic. “Dare we hope you’ll be staying at Witney Court for some time?”
“Only through the holidays.” After nearly nine months since his father’s death, it was time to get back to his life.
Wadleigh lifted his glass to Gregory before draining what little was left. “I hope you’ll visit.”
Gregory finished his port as well, which ended up being timely. Creighton stood, saying it was time to join the ladies. Presumably, he’d had more than enough of Clifford’s verbosity.
The ladies were indeed playing the embroidery game. And it was Susan’s turn. Her face was splotched with red, making her look angry or discouraged or both as she furiously poked the needle through the linen.
“Time’s up!” Mrs. Creighton called, eyeing a small hourglass on the table beside her.
Susan’s shoulders slumped and she let out a soft hiss, sounding like a snake that had missed its prey. “Is this better?” she asked, holding up the linen.
There were two…shapes. One looked somewhat like an oddly formed bean. The other, from which the needle was still protruding, looked as though it might be half of a…hand? Were they both supposed to represent the same object, or was she on her second turn? No, she’d asked if this was better, which seemed to indicate she’d made more than one attempt.
“Is it a hand?” someone asked.
“It’s a leaf.” Susan tossed the needlework onto a table. “This is a terrible game.” Her gaze drifted toward Mrs. Renshaw. Was that because she’d suggested it? Or was she merely marking her target for when the game was dismissed, which would likely be now since the gentlemen had arrived.
“Well done, Lady Witney,” Mrs. Creighton said. “This game can be quite daunting the first time you play.” She looked to her husband, who came up beside her chair. “Shall we play cards instead?”