Lord Rathbone's Flirt Page 8

  A peer. A wealthy peer. An eligible parti of the first order.

  Verity felt her heart drop into her toes, but the beauty was ecstatic.

  Miss Pettiforth at once began boasting of what she would do with his lordship. “I shall have him worshipping at my feet,” she declared confidently.

  “No doubt, dearest. But I hope that you shall show forth only your very best side,” said Mrs. Pettiforth.

  “Of course I shall, Mama. I am not such a peagoose as to let slip his lordship,” said Miss Pettiforth scornfully.

  The viscount would be the first peer to wander into Miss Pettiforth’s sphere. She was determined that Lord Rathbone would not wander out again without her mark upon him. She meant at the least to make him fall in love with her. If his lord­ship should make her an offer, why, there would be nothing to cavil in that. It would be a feather in her cap, indeed, if she could attach such a gentleman before her eighteenth year. She might even accept his lordship’s offer if she found him to her taste.

  Verity easily read the beauty’s flitting expressions of satis­faction and calculation. What she knew of Miss Pettiforth’s character gave her a very lively dread of the upcoming house party.

  * * * *

  Lord Rathbone stepped down from his curricle and gave over the responsibility of his team and the vehicle to a groom who had hurried to the horses’ heads. His lordship’s valet also got down and set about giving orders about the luggage to the footman who had descended the steps upon the curricle’s ar­rival.

  Lord Rathbone paid no heed to the flurry of activity, but stood frowning as he pulled off his driving gloves. He looked up at the front of the attractive manor house and sighed. Of all things he detested, it was to make one of a house party in the country. But he meant to make the best of things. He had given his word. However, if this Pettiforth cousin of his proved to be less than what she had been painted, he would have no compunction in shaking the dust of the place from his feet.

  He trod up the steps of the manor.

  The butler greeted Lord Rathbone, taking his lordship’s hat, gloves, and whip, and showed him into the formal drawing room. Lord Rathbone detested kicking his heels, as he termed it, and being left to his own devices did nothing to reconcile him to this visit. His frown grew more pronounced. However, he was not given many minutes to indulge his ill-tempered re­flections before his hostess, the lady who also happened to be his aunt, entered.

  Mrs. Pettiforth surged toward Lord Rathbone, her hands outstretched. “My lord! Or I suppose that I must address you as nephew, mustn’t I? I doubt that you recall when last we met, for you were quite small. I am Alice Pettiforth. How do you do?”

  “I do very well, and as a matter of fact, I do recall the occa­sion of my last visit, ma’am,” said Lord Rathbone, his dark ex­pression giving way to a determinedly pleasant smile. “There was a christening, was there not?”

  “To be sure, I had forgotten! That would have been my dearest Cecily, of course. How the years do fly! And now she is so very lovely that it brings silly sentimental tears to my eyes. But come, I am certain that you would like to take tea. Horwich will see to it.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Pettiforth,” said Lord Rathbone.

  She shook her finger coquettishly at him. “Now none of that, I pray you! I am your aunt, though we do not know one another at all well. However, I imagine that must change be­fore the end of your visit.”

  Other guests were announced and Mrs. Pettiforth excused herself in order to greet the small group. The drawing room began to fill. Lord Rathbone looked about him curiously, nod­ding and speaking to certain acquaintances whom he had met at one time or another in London. None of the guests were par­ticular friends of his, but that was certainly to be expected. The Pettiforths did not run in the same exalted circles as himself.

  However, there happened to be one face that he knew quite well, and he was astonished to see this particular lady in the predominantly provincial company. He knew of her reputation for being a dashing hostess and had himself often enjoyed making one of the company at her table.

  The lady saw him at the same time. “Lord Rathbone! This is quite a surprise, indeed.” She gave her hand to him.

  “Yes, it is,” he agreed with a smile. He glanced about. “I do not see Arnold with you. Did he not come with you?”

  Mrs. Arnold nodded, and laughed. “To be sure, he did. Her­bert would not miss the pheasants for any amount, whilst I would prefer London at nearly any time of the year. But I do not repine. In winter, I allow Herbert to shoot to his heart’s content wherever in the country that he wishes to go and he al­lows me to dissipate myself senseless during the Season. It is a very neat arrangement.”

  Lord Rathbone was amused. “Then you are very friendly with the Pettiforths?”

  “Oh no, not at all. It is Herbert’s connection, not mine. It seems that Mr. Pettiforth is an avid sportsman in his own right and somehow or other our host, Mr. Pettiforth, and my Herbert chanced to meet. An invitation was issued and here we are,” said Mrs. Arnold.

  “So this, then, is your first visit to the Pettiforths,” said Lord Rathbone, his gaze roaming the assembled company, not with any degree of pleasure, but rather with resignation.

  “Ah, but not the last, depending upon the quality and quan­tity of the pheasants,” said Mrs. Arnold with another laugh. She looked up curiously at Lord Rathbone’s sardonic face. “You must tell me how you come here, my lord. I do not think that I have ever heard that you were particularly addicted tothe sport of shooting.”

  “On the contrary, I like to take my guns out as well as the next man. However, this visit combines something of a family obligation with pleasure. My mother is sister to Mrs. Pettiforth and sent me in her place to tender her regrets at being unable to make one of the party. The ladies had not seen one another in a great number of years and it was thought Mrs. Pettiforth might feel herself to be unbearably slighted. My presence is to be a peace offering of sorts for my mother’s refusal,” said Lord Rathbone glibly.

  Mrs. Arnold shook her head. “I do not envy you, my lord. It is never comfortable discharging such obligations, especially when one would rather be elsewhere.”

  “Just so,” said Lord Rathbone, once more glancing over the company.

  Mrs. Arnold cast a singularly penetrating glance up at his lordship. A small smile touched her face. She thought she un­derstood Lord Rathbone’s probable feelings upon finding him­self in such a gathering as this and sympathized with his lordship. She, too, was something of an odd duck in this com­pany. They were as out of place as rare birds that had been thrust among a gaggle of geese.

  His lordship’s attention was claimed at that moment by Mrs. Pettiforth. Her smile was tight and the glance she cast over Mrs. Arnold was frigid. “There you are, my lord! I see that you and Mrs. Arnold have been chatting. How marvelous it is that you have struck up an acquaintance so quickly.”

  Mrs. Pettiforth’s tone instantly set up the viscount’s bristles. How dared the woman presume to censor his conduct or whom he chose to engage in conversation. “Mrs. Arnold and her husband are old friends. We see much of one another in London,” said Lord Rathbone repressively, exaggerating slightly for the sake of justice.

  “Oh, I see. But, of course, you must run in much the same circles, do you not?” said Mrs. Pettiforth, her smile not losing one iota of its steely appearance.

  Lord Rathbone was quick to note the appreciative glint in Mrs. Arnold’s eyes as that lady murmured a graceful excuse and moved off.

  Mrs. Pettiforth put her hand through his lordship’s and determinedly urged him across the floor. “How nice that you are acquainted with the Arnolds. You shall meet everyone presently, I daresay. But now I wish to make known to you Mr. Pettiforth and my eldest daughter. Cecily shall not remem­ber you, of course, since she was still in the cradle. But you will not regard that, I know, for we are all family.”

  Lord Rathbone was spared the obligation of an answer when Mrs. Pettifo
rth hailed a portly gentleman. “Mr. Pettiforth! Here is Lord Rathbone. I am certain that you must remember his lordship, my nephew.”

  Mr. Pettiforth and Lord Rathbone exchanged civil greetings. Mrs. Pettiforth waited with patent impatience for the gentle­men to be done, and then she brought forward a young damsel. “And this, Lord Rathbone, is my dear daughter, Cecily. She has been so looking forward to meeting you at last, for I have told her all about her magnificent cousin.”

  Lord Rathbone listened to Mrs. Pettiforth’s expansive words with a cynical smile, but despite his awareness of his aunt’s fawning, he could scarcely take his eyes from the girl. His bored sophistication suffered a severe check.

  The reports had not exaggerated. Miss Cecily Pettiforth was undeniably a beauty. Her figure had none of the immature lines usual for one of her youth. There was not a flaw to be found from her golden curls to the glimpse of a tiny slippered foot that peeped from beneath the hem of her gown. Her eyes were the color of sapphires, her skin the shade of alabaster and cream. Her pretty bow-mouth was a soft petal pink, just now curved in a delectable smile. When she spoke, even her voice lent itself to perfection, as she said in dulcet accents. “I am happy to make your acquaintance, my lord.”

  “As I am to make yours, Miss Pettiforth,” said Lord Rath­bone, bowing over the slender hand given to him. When he straightened, he thought he caught a look of satisfaction in the limpid sapphire eyes, but it vanished so quickly that he could not be certain of its existence.

  Mr. Pettiforth spoke up. “And this lady is Miss Verity Worth, who is staying with us for a time.”

  Lord Rathbone with difficulty turned his head away from the beauty. He met the cool gaze of a tall young woman. There was something in Miss Worth’s expression that instinc­tively sharpened his wayward attention.

  He had the oddest notion that Miss Worth disapproved of him.

  * * *

  Chapter 10

  “My lord.” Miss Worth’s quietly modulated voice was well-bred. Her features were regular, her hair a magnificent auburn, and her well-endowed figure tastefully gowned. All this Lord Rathbone received in a fleeting impression, but it was the ex­pression in her clear gray eyes that most struck him. She had met his regard with a candid measuring gaze that was posi­tively disconcerting to one used to patent feminine admiration.

  Lord Rathbone took her hand. Holding it, he looked at Miss Worth with narrowed eyes. “You appear somehow familiar to me, Miss Worth. Have we by chance met before?”

  Mrs. Pettiforth was at once startled and jealous of the mild expression of interest that the viscount had made. She shot a fulminating glance in Miss Worth’s direction. “Nonsense! How could you, indeed? Why, Miss Worth has lived quite se­cluded in the country,” said Mrs. Pettiforth emphatically.

  She was not attended to by either Lord Rathbone or Miss Worth, who continued to gaze at one another with wary cu­riosity.

  “We have met, actually. It was in London at Almack’s dur­ing my first Season, I believe,” said Miss Worth, withdrawing her hand from the viscount’s grasp.

  “Almack’s!” Lord Rathbone’s swift grin flashed forth. “I must have been in my cups, then, for I never willingly set foot in the place. It is the most tedious place imaginable.”

  “I daresay,” said Miss Worth, very dryly.

  He was pulled up short, not knowing whether she was agreeing that he had been drunk on that occasion or that Almack’s was sadly lacking in entertainment. His dark brows pulled together as he studied the lady. How strange to think that she might have deliberately and yet so gently insulted him. It was an occurrence altogether outside his previous ex­perience.

  Her eyes brushed past his face, and widened slightly. Lord Rathbone almost turned to see what had so captured her atten­tion, but forestalled himself. He was annoyed that he had al­most betrayed interest. It was an old trick, certainly, and he waited to see how Miss Worth meant to build upon it. A slight smile touched his face as he awaited her explanation. But she surprised him.

  Miss Worth said quickly, “Pray excuse me, my lord. I be­lieve that I have seen an old friend.” She slipped away with an ease that bespoke a wide social experience.

  Lord Rathbone briefly followed Miss Worth’s graceful fig­ure with his eyes. He mentally shrugged, already banishing the lady from his thoughts as he returned his attention to the Pettiforths.

  The daughter stood with a somewhat closed expression on her pretty face, a petulant pout to her lips that bespoke her dis­pleasure at being ignored. Ah, here was something that he very well understood and he was not adverse to pandering to the lit­tle beauty. Lord Rathbone was on the point of asking some teasing question of Miss Pettiforth, but he was not to be granted the opportunity to pursue his flirtation with her so soon.

  Mrs. Pettiforth was holding forth on what had just chanced, for she was one who could not let go of a thing that she did not understand. “How odd that you and Miss Worth are known to one another. I was quite astonished. Indeed, I did not think that Miss Worth was at all connected with anyone in society,” she said, frowning.

  “My dear lady, you must remember that Miss Worth has not always lived secluded in the country, as we have,” said Mr. Pettiforth quietly. “I believe that she has a number of friends in London and certainly she is at home in society.”

  Mrs. Pettiforth was not pleased to think that her own conse­quence was not of the same hue. “Yes, it is why we have her with us, is it not? You must know, my lord, that Miss Worth stands as a sort of companion to my dear Cecily, who is still rather shy in company.”

  “Oh yes, but I mean to be a credit to everyone,” said Miss Pettiforth in a breathless voice. She cast a wide-eyed glance up at Lord Rathbone’s face.

  Her long lashes dropped to demurely hide her eyes, but not before Lord Rathbone had caught the calculation in her ex­pression. Oh ho, is that how it is? he thought, and mentally shrugged his disappointment. He should have guessed that the chit would have been primed for his visit. No doubt his mother had hinted to her sister of the object of his visit and Mrs. Petti­forth in turn had encouraged Miss Pettiforth to make the most of her opportunity.

  Mrs. Pettiforth patted her daughter’s arm. “Of course you will be, my pet. Why, you already are, for I doubt that even a gentleman as worldly at Lord Rathbone has ever set his eyes on such a lovely face.”

  Lord Rathbone’s cynicism was once more at full force. It was odiously obvious to him that Mrs. Pettiforth was deter­mined that he should make an offer for her daughter. “I am flattered, ma’am. However, I can point to a dozen gentlemen far more worldly than myself.”

  In a deliberate move to depress the woman further, he ad­dressed a casual question to Mr. Pettiforth concerning the sport to be had in the country, thus effectively turning the sub­ject. Mrs. Pettiforth stood irresolute for a few minutes, as though hopeful of seeing his eyes stray once again to Miss Pet­tiforth. But as Lord Rathbone showed no inclination to fall in with her desires, she then took herself and her daughter off to more interesting ground.

  After a few minutes, Lord Rathbone excused himself to Mr. Pettiforth and withdrew to speak to another acquaintance. As he listened to this gentleman, his bored gaze roamed the com­pany.

  His attention was caught and held by the sight of the hired companion, Miss Worth, and Mrs. Arnold holding what ap­peared to be a busy conversation. The two seemed to be on very good terms. Idly, he wondered if what Mr. Pettiforth had said was true and that Miss Worth did indeed sport a London acquaintance. If so, her family must have fallen on harsh times to countenance a daughter taking the menial post of playing companion to a spoiled schoolroom chit.

  He smiled faintly as he recalled how quick Mrs. Pettiforth had been to broadcast Miss Worth’s position in the household. His aunt without doubt possessed a certain meanness of char­acter. She had made such short shrift of Miss Worth, and had also detached him so swiftly from Mrs. Arnold, that it was patently obvious the lady was jealous of his passing time with any lady ot
her than Miss Pettiforth.

  Lord Rathbone decided that it would be vaguely amusing to tease Mrs. Pettiforth a little. The pretentious woman deserved to have a blow dealt to the confidence she had already ex­pressed through her atrocious maneuverings. She would learn quickly that he did not mean to fall so tamely into line.

  He glanced around to discover that Mrs. Pettiforth was en­gaged in the role of hostess at her spouse’s side. Acting upon his ignoble impulse, Lord Rathbone strolled over to join Mrs. Arnold and Miss Worth.

  Lord Rathbone was amused to catch Mrs. Pettiforth’s star­tled eyes. Deliberately he smiled down at the ladies, saying, “I did not realize that you and Miss Worth were on terms of inti­macy, ma’am.”

  Mrs. Arnold was too well-versed in social niceties to mis­take the message in the viscount’s manner. It amused her to foster it, for she well knew that her old friend was not one to put herself forward. She had long thought it a pity that Verity Worth had not seen fit to marry. The thought crossed her mind that her friend could do worse than to attract the notice of the viscount. “Miss Worth and I have a long history, my lord. We attended the same seminary and made our bows in the same season. Verity grants me the occasional visit whenever she chances to come to London.”

  “How is it, then, that I do not recall the pleasure of your ac­quaintance, Miss Worth?” he asked. “I daresay I should if you have often graced Mrs. Arnold’s table. I beg your forgiveness for the oversight.”

  “When I go to London, I stay quietly with friends and enjoy a select circle. No doubt that is why we have not come into one another’s way,” said Miss Worth quietly.

  “No doubt,” he agreed, reflecting that most of her friends were probably not members of the ton. Perhaps the only influ­ential connection that Miss Worth could claim was that mo­ment seated beside her.