The Duke Heist (The Wild Wynchesters #1) - Erica Ridley Page 0,5
his well-rehearsed lines. He stepped no farther.
“Did I mistake the date?” he inquired carefully.
“No, no. Right on time, as always.” Mr. York strode up to join his wife. “You’re a man who cleaves to duty. A fine trait, I daresay. Very little in common with your father.”
“Er…thank you. I should hope I’m nothing like him.”
“Quite right, quite right. Your parliamentary speeches could rival Fox and Pitt. Your father, on the other hand, rarely left his club—or his cups. Indeed, there are many who say—” Mr. York coughed and gave Lawrence a jovial clap on the shoulder. “’Tis no time for gossip, is it, my boy?”
Lawrence affected an affable smile. At least, he hoped that was what his face was doing. He was conscious every day that the Gosling name teetered on the edge of respectability. Mr. York’s unfinished intimation had been clear: there were still those who said Faircliffe dukes were a blight on society.
Duke or not, nothing was certain until the contract was signed.
“It is our honor, Your Grace,” Mrs. York gushed as she fluttered her hands in excitement and impatience. “Is that the special gift for Philippa? Come, you must present it to her at once.”
“I admit I can’t fathom what beauty she sees in that painting,” Mr. York murmured.
Lawrence held the frame a little harder. Dancing hobgoblins were an unusual subject. He did not understand why anyone would want it.
What if, upon second inspection, the young lady realized her error in having expressed admiration for such questionable “art” and laughed in his face when he presented it as a gift? Being able to give an item he already possessed had seemed like serendipity. Now he feared the omen might not be positive. His veins hummed with panic.
“It sounds as though Miss York is entertaining guests.” He gripped the frame. “I should return when I’m not interrupting.”
“Stuff and nonsense.” Mrs. York looped her hand about the crook of Lawrence’s elbow and all but dragged him down the corridor. “It’s just a few of her bluestocking friends. I’m certain they’ll all find it amusing to see what you’ve brought Philippa.”
Yes. Exactly what he was afraid of.
But there was no backing out now. His father’s word wasn’t worth the breath it floated on, but Lawrence had kept every vow for two and thirty years. Miss York liked the painting; he’d promised to give it to her. On this day. At this time. Nowhere to go but forward.
Besides, “a few bluestockings” was hardly a lion’s den…was it?
“Philippa, my dear, look who’s arrived!” Mrs. York sang out as they entered a grand parlor.
The room was enormous, with seats for over two dozen guests, and every chair was full.
Lawrence could feel the weight of too many gazes landing on him at once.
Half of them, he did not recognize—perhaps those were the “bluestockings”—but the other half were familiar faces from polite society. He swallowed hard. He didn’t merely need to impress Miss York and her parents; he needed to charm an entire room.
If only influencing a parlor full of women were as easy as debating customs and excise reform at Westminster with a few hundred of his peers. Quoting the latest committee findings was unlikely to gain him any points here.
He wouldn’t acknowledge any of them, Lawrence decided. The situation was too fraught and the chance for error too high. Missteps like smiling at or snubbing the wrong young lady. He would place all of his attention on Miss York. That could be interpreted as romantic, could it not? Here he was with a courting gift, a knight bearing a tapestry of dancing demons for his fair maiden.
Miss York, for her part, was enshrouded in her usual yards of voluminous lace. Only her pink cheeks and dimpled hands protruded from the delicate froth, lending her the appearance of a life-sized doll.
Her eternally blank expression made the resemblance uncanny.
“Miss York,” Lawrence began, then paused. He could not kiss her hand with a painting in his arms, and setting it on the ground risked damage. Bowing would be just as unwieldy. He would have to skip the niceties and rush straight to the romance. “I’ve brought you a humble token of my admiration.”
“Ohhh,” gasped one of her friends. “What could it be?”
“A painting my mother informed him I might enjoy.” Miss York gestured toward a blank spot on the wall. “She intends to put it there.”
So. She was not impressed with his courtship gift. Lawrence forced himself to smile anyway.