Across the ornate drawing room, he caught a furtive glimmer of amusement in his sister’s eyes. He would get no sympathy there. Penelope dearly loved to see him suffer.
“Lord Thomas? Are you listening?”
“Hmm? Oh, yes, of course, Miss Trevlyn.” He focused his attention upon another, thickly embroidered pillow cover she was now displaying. “You were saying about the stitches? Fascinating. Do tell me more.”
“You will note the seven rows of flat and French-knot stitches done in silk-chenille thread,” Bettina continued in her humorless voice, running her finger lovingly over her latest triumph. “Note they’re done in various shades of pink. I almost made them red, though. In fact, I started to stitch them in red and then I thought, I might like them better in pink. A most perplexing dilemma, as you can see. So then I decided I really did like them better in pink, so I pulled out all the red stitches and put in the pink.”
God save me. Actually the girl wasn’t that bad looking. Nice figure... brown hair piled stylishly atop her head... pleasantly rounded face, although rather on the bland side, but with eyes that held not one iota of spark or humor. He must try to be kind.
He was saved when Bettina’s mother, purse-lipped, pinch-nosed Mrs. Walter Trevyln, sitting grandly on the settee across, called sharply, “Bettina, I do believe Lord Thomas has heard enough about your needle-work.” She regarded Thomas with avid curiosity. “So tell me, Lord Thomas, what of your dear brother, Lord Eddington? Did you see him in London upon your return from the West Indies?”
Thomas was not surprised at her question. For years, it appeared Lydia Trevlyn’s main goal in life was to marry off her eldest daughter to Montague, or if not the eldest, one of the other two. Obviously nothing had changed. “I didn’t have a chance to see my brother. I came straight from the docks to Northfield Hall, stopping only long enough to hire my horse.”
Charlotte, the eldest daughter, always a model of elegance, beauty, and propriety, awarded him a tight smile. “A pity, Lord Thomas. Of late, we have seen little of Lord Eddington. Do you suppose he’s been taken ill?”
Not likely, Thomas thought, but tactfully answered, “If he is ill, I haven’t heard.” He had noted an edge to her voice, and no wonder. Miss Charlotte Trevlyn’s beauty was without imperfection. Her deportment was impeccable. She could sing like a lark and play piano with amazing skill. She spoke French like a native. Her watercolors were superb. She was, in essence, everything a young lady of the Polite World should be, but up to now, despite her best efforts, and her mother’s, she had not managed to trap old Montague.
Thomas knew the reason. “The girl is like a beautiful doll,” Montague once complained. “Such perfection. But it’s all just for show. Underneath she’s hollow, except for greed and vanity, just like her mother.”
Thomas could not argue with the truth. “All that aside, Montague, Papa expects you to marry her. He’ll be keenly disappointed if you don’t.”
Thomas remembered his brother’s grim look of resignation as he replied, “I know, and someday I’ll propose, as soon as I can stomach the thought of marrying that block of ice.” Montague made a face and added, “You don’t know how lucky you are to be a second son.”
But Charlotte’s a beautiful block of ice. Thomas turned his attention to the eldest daughter, admiring her white skin, blonde hair piled high, her figure stunning in her low-cut satin dinner gown. What a pity...
“Thomas, my boy, how good to see you.”
To Thomas’s relief, Lord Trevlyn entered the drawing room. Papa was right. His lordship had aged since Thomas last saw him. His hair was completely white; deep lines etched his face; his shoulders were stooped, as if in defeat, and he now walked with a cane. Thomas stood, bowed, and remarked, “And it’s good to see you, sir.” He stopped himself from adding, “You’re looking fit,” because that would be a lie. He had always liked Lord Trevyln who was one of his father’s best friends, despite their being almost exact opposites, both in temperament and interests. Papa was a big, burly man, noisy and outgoing—or at least he had been before the gout. He liked fishing, hunting, and all outdoor sports. Trevlyn, on the other hand, was a reclusive man who spent much time in his study reading the classics in their