“Thank you. It was a shock, but we’re adjusting. Finally.” The months following his death had been awful, at least for Gregory. He’d been very close to their father. Far closer than Clifford had been.
Gregory realized it had been just two days ago, when he’d met Mrs. Renshaw and found Ash, that he’d at last felt somewhat like his old self.
“I take it you and Evie know each other from London?” Mrs. Creighton asked.
Evie. A charming, buoyant name that suited her perfectly. Her parents must have seen her spirit the moment she was born.
Blast it all, he was beginning to think like a romantic.
“Yes,” Mrs. Renshaw answered, since he was too busy generating silly thoughts. “We also encountered each other a few days ago—when I was out for a walk.”
“Oh?” Mrs. Creighton’s light-brown brows shot up as she glanced toward Mrs. Renshaw. Mrs. Creighton was clearly surprised, and Gregory found himself wondering why Mrs. Renshaw hadn’t told her about meeting him.
“Yes, they found the puppy together,” Creighton said to his wife. “Did I not mention that part?”
“You did not,” Mrs. Creighton murmured, appearing slightly perturbed. Recovering, she gave Gregory a pleasant smile. “I take it you are caring for the dog?”
“I am.” Since Mrs. Renshaw didn’t want to. Belatedly, he realized why she hadn’t wanted to take Ash with her—she was a guest in someone’s home.
“How lovely of you,” Mrs. Creighton responded.
Creighton clasped his hands behind his back. “I hope you heard about the dinner invitation I delivered to Witney Court. I spoke with Lady Witney briefly. I didn’t know you were in residence. I do hope you’ll come too.”
Gregory wasn’t entirely surprised that Susan hadn’t told him about it. Given her haughty attitude and condescension about their new neighbors, he wondered if she would even deign to go. He’d bloody well make her—and his brother—attend. “I’d be delighted. Remind me when it is?” He didn’t want to make it known that Susan hadn’t shared the invitation with him.
“Day after tomorrow. We wanted to welcome everyone into Threadbury Hall as we’ve made some refurbishments.”
“Splendid. I haven’t been inside the house since I was a child. I shall be delighted to see what you’ve done. As it happens, I have a special interest in architecture and considered a career in it, but my father steered me toward the church.”
Why had he told them that last part? Because it had been so much a part of his life the past several years that he’d done so without thinking. His father had wanted him to be a bishop, and Gregory had worked—if unenthusiastically—to achieve that end. And now that his father was gone, he could change course.
Creighton’s sherry-colored eyes lit with interest. “I’ve more plans and would be keen to discuss them with you.”
“It would be my pleasure.” Gregory looked especially forward to the dinner. Spending the evening with Mrs. Renshaw was enticing enough. Now he had even more reason to anticipate the occasion.
He turned his attention to her. “I wondered if you might partner me—”
Mrs. Renshaw held up her hand, cutting him off before he could finish. “If you’re going to ask me to dance, please don’t. I did not come to dance.”
Why had she come, then? He wanted to ask the question—and would—but not in front of her hosts. “A promenade, then? The gardens are lovely, and it’s not too cold out if you have a wrap.”
She hesitated before answering, and in that moment, Mrs. Creighton shot her a puzzled look. “I can fetch it,” Mrs. Renshaw said. “A promenade would be pleasant.”
Gregory offered her his arm and inclined his head toward the Creightons.
“My pelisse is in the cloak room,” Mrs. Renshaw indicated as they circuited the ballroom.
He’d assumed as much, which was why he hadn’t steered them outside. “Do you not care for dancing?”
“I did before I wed,” she said. “But I haven’t done so in years.”
“You can’t have forgotten how,” he suggested with a smile.
“No, but I don’t find it as engaging as I once did.”
“A promenade gives us more chance to talk anyway, so I can’t say I’m disappointed. I thought you might like to hear how Ash is doing.”
“Yes, please. I was wondering…does he sleep in your chamber?” She looked up at him—for she was a good seven or eight inches shorter than his six feet—expectantly.
“He does, in fact. My brother tried to persuade me to lodge him in the stables, but then he would interrupt the lads’ slumber and perhaps their duties. I’m afraid he enjoys a jaunt somewhere between four and five in the morning. To relieve himself,” he added in a whisper.
“I see. You are kind to care for him personally.”
“I confess, when I am out with him at that hour, I completely understand why you preferred not to take him with you.”
She laughed softly as they reached the cloak room. “I hadn’t considered that, but I shall be grateful to my past self.”
After they retrieved her pelisse, he helped her don it. She buttoned the front over her bodice, covering the flesh above it up to her neck.
Gregory offered his arm once more. “You don’t regret not taking him? I thought I might still persuade you. He’s awfully sweet.”
“I’m certain he is. However, I have not changed my mind about caring for a pet. I also had an agenda for seeing you this evening,” she said, sparking his curiosity. And making his heart beat a trifle faster.
“I can hardly wait to hear it,” he murmured, quickening their pace so they would get outside faster.
Suddenly, his brother blocked their path. “Care to introduce us?” Clifford asked, his gaze landing on Mrs. Renshaw, and his nostrils flaring almost imperceptibly.
Gregory recognized his brother’s reaction. He’d never disguised his interest in attractive women. Indeed, his passion for them had frustrated their father no end. Clifford was married now only because he’d promised his father on his deathbed that he’d do so before the end of the year. That he’d kept that promise had impressed Gregory—and surprised him more than a little.
“Allow me to present Mrs. Renshaw. She’s a guest at Threadbury Hall. Mrs. Renshaw, this is my brother, the Marquess of Witney and his wife, Lady Witney.”
Susan hadn’t stepped in front of them as Clifford had. She surveyed them from beneath hooded lids, her lips pursing slightly as she looked at Mrs. Renshaw.
The widow offered a curtsey to Clifford. “Good evening. I’m pleased to meet you, Lord and Lady Witney.”
“The pleasure is mine,” Clifford said, smiling broadly. “How do you know my brother?” He gave Gregory a look that seemed to ask why he hadn’t been made aware of her.
“We know each other from the Phoenix Club in London,” Mrs. Renshaw responded.
How Gregory hadn’t put that together was astonishing. But then he’d only visited a few times. He’d been there the night his father had suffered his fit.
“Ah yes, I’ve heard of that. Vaguely.” Clifford waved his hand as if the club were inconsequential. Of course, he would think so—he hadn’t been invited to join.