It was in no way unusual for matrons of her age and station to attend such events without their husbands or other companions. In her gown of figured lilac silk, with her hair swept up but allowed to softly frame her face and with the Alverton diamonds blazing about her throat and dangling from her earlobes, she was entirely as one with the crowd, and with a confident smile curving her lips, she glided through the guests to join a group of other young matrons whose lives were similar to her own.
She arrived in time to hear Georgiana, Lady Sheldrake, say, “My Thomas has just discovered the joy of tugging—he races around pulling every rope, cord, string, or tie he can reach. He’s even taken to escaping the nursery to find more things to pull. My butler despairs. Every time he walks into a room, it’s to discover the curtain cords have vanished.”
“Better something so innocuous as curtain cords,” Emily, Lady Pritchard, replied. “I still have nightmares over the months during which Cedric became obsessed with tugging necklines and trying to peer inside. You can imagine how that played out when my mother-in-law brought her bosom-bows to visit to show off her eldest grandson.”
The other ladies laughed, which Emily took as her due, then she blandly added, “I did ask Pritchard whether he’d been teaching his heir bad habits, but he denied it.”
Everyone chuckled, and the conversation rolled on; initially a running commentary on their children and households, gradually, the shared observations shifted focus to those of the ton still in London, what the latest gossip regarding political maneuverings was, and whether anyone had heard more about the latest scandal engulfing the business world.
Eventually, satisfied that she’d learned all her closest acquaintances could tell her and having contributed various social tidbits of her own, Therese left the group and wended through the knots of guests to join another circle of acquaintances. She paused beside a tallish lady with burnished brown hair and tapped her arm.
Veronica, Viscountess Hemmings, turned her head, saw Therese, and her face lit. “Therese, my dear! Well met.”
Therese smiled as she and Veronica clasped fingers. “I wondered if I might find you here.”
The tall, rakishly handsome gentleman on Veronica’s other side leaned forward to smile and half bow. “Therese.”
Still smiling, Therese nodded back. “My lord.” James, Viscount Hemmings, was one of Devlin’s oldest friends, and somewhat to Therese’s surprise—and possibly James’s as well—given he’d married Veronica, with whom Therese had been acquainted since girlhood, she, James, and Veronica had become established friends.
James glanced over the heads in the direction from which Therese had come. “No Devlin, I take it.”
“I believe he’s attending a business dinner in the City,” Therese replied. Devlin occasionally attended social events, usually by her side, but by and large, he preferred to leave it to her to maintain their wider social presence, a normal arrangement for couples of their standing. Smiling easily as she acknowledged the other two ladies and three gentlemen in their circle, she shrugged aside the niggling thought that she wouldn’t have minded Devlin making time to attend more social functions—and that she was just a touch jealous of the way James was constantly to be found at Veronica’s side.
Admittedly, James’s hovering came with repercussions of which Therese was well aware, but a relationship that landed midway between overly possessive and distant would, she thought, be rather nice.
There were often times in social situations when she wished Devlin was beside her to share observations and insights; strange to say, he was the person whose views most closely mirrored her own.
Such unproductive mooning was something she rarely indulged in; that wasn’t how their marriage worked.
Her social smile firmly in place, she turned to the gentleman on her right, who had just joined their circle.
She didn’t recognize him, not at all, which was unusual enough to make her take extra note. He was tall—as tall as Devlin—with a similar lean and rangy build. His features were blatantly aristocratic, with a patrician nose, well-defined cheekbones, and a squarish chin. Glossy, light-brown hair fell in fashionably cut waves, and his eyes, as they briefly met hers, were a curious shade of amber.
Well dressed, aristocratic—Therese felt she should know him.
The stranger’s gaze had fixed on James; he nodded as James glanced his way. “Hemmings.”
A light, social smile on his lips, one that told Therese absolutely nothing, James inclined his head. “Child.”
Therese blinked and looked again at the stranger. Child? Her mind raced, assembling everything she knew about the noble family who held the Duchy of Ancaster and whose principal seat bordered that of the earldom of Alverton.
As if aware of her scrutiny and the reasons behind it, Child threw a faintly amused look her way as he said, clearly speaking to Hemmings, “Perhaps, old son, you might do the honors and introduce me.”
“Of course.” Smoothly, James named those in the circle, commencing with Therese, then Veronica, and continuing until he reached Child and said, “Allow me to present Lord Grayson Child.”
Various bells clanged in Therese’s head.
Child exchanged nods with the gentlemen and half bowed to Veronica and the other two ladies, then turned the full force of his undoubted charm on Therese and bowed with a touch more deference. “Countess.”
Therese smiled serenely and gave him her hand. As he took it and bowed again, she said, “I’m acquainted with your parents.”
Child straightened a fraction more quickly than elegance dictated.
Before he could decide how to reply, she arched her brows. “Am I to take it the prodigal son has returned?”
Veronica was listening, as was James. The rest of the circle had started chatting about something else.
Child assumed an easy, self-deprecating smile. “I’m not sure I warrant the label of prodigal. I merely departed for greener pastures, and after several years spent in America, I decided it was time to return.” He glanced around. “I have to say that, despite my lengthy absence, I’m relieved to discover that I still feel quite at home in this milieu.”
Therese returned his smile. “How reassuring for you. I have to admit I’m quite curious as to what prompted your departure. It was, if memory serves, more than a mere ‘several years’ ago.”
Having had it confirmed which Child he was, she was intrigued. Grayson Child had been Devlin’s closest childhood friend. As noble neighbors of the same age, the pair had grown up together, attended Eton together, and subsequently gone to Oxford, although there, they’d attended different colleges and, she understood, had drifted apart. James and Cedric Marshall, now Devlin’s closest friends, had been at Eton, too, and had attended Balliol alongside Devlin.
“Well,” Child allowed, “I suppose it was…” His brows rose as if he was calculating, then he looked faintly surprised. “Nine years ago.”
That explained why Therese had never met him; she’d still been in the schoolroom nine years ago.
“And you’ve been in America for all those years?” She recalled whispers that Child’s and Devlin’s rivalry had been intense and had extended into their twenties, through the years they’d spent as well-heeled bachelors on the town; she could imagine how such a rivalry might have played out.