Mistletoe and Mayhem - Cheryl Bolen Page 0,145

father is doing nowadays. Still catching spies, I hope. But of course he doesn’t discuss such matters with his lovely daughter.” He tugged her to sit next to him on a settee near the fire.

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