“I apologize for my language, but you should not be here. Your chamber—all the ladies’ chambers—are in the opposite corridor.”
“Is that where I went wrong?” She was definitely flustered. “I counted the doors—I think Mother’s is the second, but—” She pressed a hand to her heart and shuddered. “Then I realized this is a gentleman’s dressing room.”
“Lord Restive’s.” Cecil did his best not to narrow his eyes at her. He had no good reason to disbelieve her; one might easily take a wrong turn in an unfamiliar house, and an innocent lady would be understandably upset at finding she’d entered a gentleman’s dressing room—particularly if she heard someone in the bedchamber it adjoined. “Don’t be alarmed. It’s only his valet.”
“Thank heavens no one saw me but you,” she said breathlessly. She swept past him and hurried off.
He continued to his own bedroom, pondering the night ahead. It was the devil’s own luck that Lord Wellough had suddenly arrived a day earlier, displacing him from the ideal situation next to Restive’s suite. Perhaps he could drug Wellough and eavesdrop from his dressing room. Or hover down the corridor to see if someone sought to speak privately with Restive in the middle of the night—or, more likely, until Restive sought the Contessa’s chamber.
Or until Miss Darsington ventured into this passageway again. But why would she? She didn’t want Restive; no, surely her denial was genuine on that score. She definitely didn’t want Wellough, and she’d shown no sign of more than polite interest in Dufair.
I’m a jealous fool, Cecil told himself. No doubt she really had become lost. He should concentrate on the job to be done—not easy, when all he wanted was to grab every chance to get to know her better.
He fetched a box of cigarillos and left his bedchamber in time to meet Miss Darsington at the head of the stairs. She carried a homespun bag with a skein of grey yarn and two wicked-looking knitting needles poking out the top.
“He won’t sit too close to me now,” she said.
He laughed, suspicion vanishing in the light of her astonishing smile.
When Dorothea arrived in the drawing room, Lady Alice and Mrs. Kelly were discussing gardening, with Mother a bored third participant. Dorothea sat next to the Contessa. The foreign lady—dressed all in white, save for black lace trim and a black woolen shawl—was engaged in crewel embroidery. They duly admired one another’s work.
“I cannot knit,” the Contessa said, “but it is a necessary accomplishment for English ladies. Your climate is so chilly—brrr! You are making a…muffler is what you call it, no?”
“Yes, for my father.”
“You are a dutiful daughter,” she said, a hint of sarcasm in her voice as she glanced at Dorothea’s mother.
Did everyone know about their earlier argument? Possibly, for servants heard everything and gossiped about their employers. Dorothea bent her head to her knitting. It would be wrong to discuss her mother with a stranger. She had already said too much to Cecil Hale.
The Contessa interrupted these cogitations with a chuckle. “Do not be too dutiful. That is not amusing for a young and beautiful girl.”
In what way was the Contessa advising her to be undutiful? She could hardly ask, so she pretended she had miscounted her stitches.
“Your papa could not travel with you today?” the Contessa went on blithely.
“No, alas. He is in London, busy with government work.” In what proved to be a vain attempt to turn the subject, she added, “Lady Alice mentioned that your father was one of her favorite suitors.”
“My dear papa is still a handsome man—and virile, too, judging by the testimony of many ladies.” She chuckled again; she had no shame! “Is your papa handsome and virile, too?”
Dorothea was sure she blushed crimson.
“I embarrass you; it is unkind of me, for you are a proper young lady.” The Contessa didn’t sound at all sorry. She smoothed her skirts. “I made the lace for this gown. The fashionable English ladies wear black mostly for mourning. What a waste of an exquisite color!”
Dorothea accepted the change of subject with relief. “It becomes you very well, particularly since you have such beautiful dark hair. You are from Italy?”
“I was born in Corsica, which is now part of France but nevertheless very much Italian. The estate of my husband, the Conte, is near to Roma, but he is dead now, so I may live where I choose.”
“Are you merely visiting England, or do you make your home here?”
She shrugged. “I came for amusement. As long as I enjoy myself, I shall stay.” She cocked her head to one side. “Lord Restive is a handsome and virile man.”
Dorothea gave up on propriety. “Is he your lover?”
“Not yet, but I arrived only yesterday.” She smiled like a cat at the cream pot. “By tomorrow morning, he will be.”
Dorothea sighed, wistfully thinking improper thoughts.
“You want him for yourself? I am sorry, but I cannot give him up yet.”
“No, no!” Dorothea said. “I do not covet Lord Restive. I don’t wish to marry at all, but…”
“You wish to experience the pleasures of the flesh. That is understood.”
“No!” Dorothea protested, and then whispered, “Yes, but not with Lord Restive. In any event, it is not wise for an unmarried maiden.”
“That is true, but if you never marry, what choice do you have? You must not shrivel into old age without the touch of a man.” She paused. “Why do you not wish to marry? Because of the stupidity of husbands?”
“Yes,” Dorothea said dejectedly.
“You must find a reasonable man. My husband was such a one.” The Contessa’s gaze flickered to the doorway. Lord Restive was ushering his odious cousin in ahead of him.
“You shall remain beside me,” the Contessa murmured, “so that old man cannot drool all over you.”
Dorothea stifled a giggle. “Thank you.”
“Unless Mr. Hale rescues you again. He is a virile man, too.”
Must I spend the entire evening blushing? “But not the sort to ruin an innocent lady.” She wondered if he’d begun to like her—he certainly flirted as if he did—but perhaps that was only his way of helping to foil her mother’s plans. He’d been quite rude just now upstairs. “I think he disapproves of me.”
“No, he is enchanted,” the Contessa whispered. “Only look at him!”
Dorothea raised her eyes, but Cecil had turned to speak to his hostess, and the only enchantment in view was on the rubicund visage of Lord Wellough.
“Monsieur Dufair wishes to sketch us together,” the Contessa said. “Perhaps that will make Mr. Hale jealous.”
Dorothea rolled her eyes at this absurdity. The Contessa beckoned to Dufair, who eagerly complied. To Dorothea’s surprise, Mother offered to play piquet with Lord Wellough. That didn’t stop his ceaseless commentary on Dorothea’s beauty and desirability as a wife for some lucky man. Cecil must have tired of flirting, for he spent the evening discussing land management with Restive and the vicar.
The instant Dufair finished his sketch, Dorothea pleaded fatigue and hurried up to her bedchamber. Sarah helped her undress, ran the bedwarmer between the sheets, and bade her sleep well.