Politely, she complied and accepted a cup of mulled cider from the hovering footman.
“Hard to believe that such an unprepossessing fellow produced a diamond like you, Miss Darsington,” Wellough said. “Where is your mother? I was told she’s here. Not that she’s much to look at either.”
“Wellough, mind your tongue,” Lady Alice said, adding apologetically, “My cousin never had the least bit of tact.”
“My mother will be down shortly,” Dorothea said. “Perhaps someone could escort her?” She looked about, perhaps expecting Cecil to comply, but he had retired to a far corner of the room to pour a cup of punch. He hadn’t the slightest intention of fetching the battle-axe from upstairs.
Lady Alice motioned to the footman to escort Lady Darsington, and Dorothea gazed down at her glass of cider, while Wellough ogled her, talking constantly.
“Poor girl,” Lord Restive murmured. “It serves her right, though.”
“It does not,” Cecil retorted.
“My, my,” Restive said. “You are besotted.”
“I spoke to her,” Cecil said softly. “She didn’t come here to trap you, but to avoid being forced into a compromising situation with Lord Forle.”
“Ah. That explains her execrable attempt at flirtation. Quite a contrast from her usual demeanor, which is aloof and reserved.”
She’d been neither with him, Cecil noted with pleasure. He shouldn’t hug that knowledge to himself, since she’d shown no sign of personal interest in him, but he did so anyway. “However, her mother is incensed and intends to substitute you for Lord Forle.”
Restive eyed him. “She confided all this to you in the space of a few minutes? Impressive work.”
Since he had already complimented himself, Cecil counteracted this with a shake of the head. “She stormed out of an argument with her mother. I merely calmed her down. She asked me to warn you to never, ever be alone with her even for a few seconds.”
“Or all hell will break loose,” Restive muttered. “Perhaps I should move her and her dreadful mother to the nearest inn.”
“No,” Cecil protested. “She deserves our help.”
Restive’s mocking glance met his. “If only one could dispose of the mother and keep the daughter, eh? Her father’s not such a bad sort, though.”
Cecil shrugged, unwilling to confirm or deny his acquaintance with Sir Frederick Darsington. “If you confine your attentions to the Contessa, all will be well. I’m sure that will be no hardship.”
Restive grinned. “What is the purpose of a house party, if not illicit liaisons?”
Or meetings with a fellow spy.
“I have an excellent notion,” Restive said. “You must pay court to the delightful Dorothea.”
Startled—since he had already decided to further the acquaintance—Cecil said, “What?”
“You’re itching to rescue her from my tedious cousin.” He jutted his chin in the direction of Lord Wellough. “You needn’t worry about compromising her. You could probably seduce the chit and still avoid marriage—as long as the old bat doesn’t learn too much about you.” He eyed his friend with an evil twinkle. “Don’t worry, I shan’t reveal your secret. But you wouldn’t want to avoid marriage with her, would you?”
“She shouldn’t be forced to marry anyone,” Cecil retorted.
“Not even you?”
“No one,” Cecil said. “Since I intend to protect her, the question of seduction doesn’t arise.”
“So noble,” Restive said. “You’ve always been an admirable fellow, an example to us all. Still, think what fun to make her ghastly mother fear the worst—that her daughter will be obliged to marry a nobody.”
Cecil couldn’t help but chuckle at that.
“Pay her assiduous court, my friend. Enjoy it while you can.” He shook his head. “With a mother-in-law like that, I pity the poor fellow who ends up marrying the girl.”
Chapter Four
Dorothea sipped her cider, doing her best not to cringe. It would be rude to shy visibly, but she was squished up against one arm of the settee, and Lord Wellough took up what was left. Not that he needed to; he was large, granted, but he sat with his knees spread, so his leg brushed her gown. She was accustomed to being ogled, but not so closely. Ugh!
Then his beefy hand brushed her thigh, and she sprang to her feet, almost slopping cider down her gown. “Oh, dear,” she said, thinking to claim that she had indeed stained her dress. Anything to get away from this odious old man—but before she could get another word out, Cecil Hale was there in front of her.
“I’ll carry that for you, shall I?” He appropriated her glass. “Let me show you those books, as promised.”
She tucked her hand in his arm. He whisked her from the drawing room, across the Great Hall, and under the staircase to Lord Restive’s library. It was truly magnificent—shelves upon shelves of volumes, some of them clearly used, not just placed there for show. What a pity she couldn’t remain in here for the duration of their stay.
She released his arm. “Thank you very much.”
“My pleasure,” Cecil murmured.
“Usually I can handle odious men, or Mother does it for me. We are always at odds, but I do recognize her abilities. She is excellent at fending off suitors she disapproves of.” Or mere lechers like that old fogey.
“Then my work is cut out for me,” Cecil said.
Dismay assailed her. Surely he wasn’t another suitor!
“Restive and I decided he will make it plain that he desires the Contessa, while I pretend to be smitten with you.”
Oh. Did that mean Cecil didn’t find her attractive?
“She won’t be able to catch you with him, because he will always be at the Contessa’s side. Your mother will not only realize that her plan won’t work, but she’ll be further occupied with fending me off.”
“I see.” It was a clever plan, so why did she feel slighted?
“If you agree to the deception,” he added. “Since she considers me ineligible, there’s no harm in it.”
Dorothea almost blurted that she didn’t care a jot for eligibility, but that wasn’t the point. He wasn’t actually going to court her, nor did it matter what he really thought of her.
Nevertheless, she was again a little chagrined—perhaps because on the many occasions when he had surreptitiously guarded her, she had been a little attracted to him.
Or, if she were to admit it to herself, perhaps a great deal. He had figured more than once in bedtime fantasies. Now that she was acquainted with him, that would have to stop.
She took a decisive breath. He would make a show of desiring her, and she… “What is my role? Should I pretend to encourage your advances?”
“Only if you wish to, but I expect it would infuriate your mother.”
She laughed—but ruefully. She didn’t like angering her mother and wished there were another option. “I shall tell her that you and I have many ideals in common. She will hate that, as she disagrees with all my radical notions. I shall say that I find your conversation most stimulating. That I simply can’t get enough of it.”