Mistletoe and Mayhem - Cheryl Bolen Page 0,64

off.”

Fitz nudged him along the path through the arbor, the men’s voices and laughter following, Glanford booming out details of his mistress’s skills.

“I’ve saved you from pistols at dawn,” Fitz said.

Relieved to be leaving, George stopped, threw back his head, and laughed. “Only listen to him.”

“He is an ass.” Fitz was chuckling with him as they reached a turn in the path.

They both froze, their laughter dying. A lady stood rooted to the flagstones, a pale statue with wheaten hair, a far-away gaze, and hands twisted over a swelling waist. Glanford’s bride.

“Said she learned the trick from a sword swallower.” Glanford’s words rumbled through the garden.

He heard Fitz’s sharp breath over his own pounding heart.

The lady’s gaze swiveled their way. Color flooded her cheeks and her lower lip trembled. He managed an awkward bow.

“Sophie.” Fitz said, “are you well?”

She blinked, and a single tear rolled over her cheek, taking the color with it until she was as pale as the white gloves clasped at her waist.

Shame slithered through George. She looked ready to faint.

He took one step forward and she blinked, shuttering the hurt and freezing him in place with a stony gaze.

“Are you looking for Glanford?” Fitz asked, his tone gentle. “Shall I fetch him for you? The gentlemen are just down this path in the garden.”

Her chin eased up in another long scrutiny, the steady throb in her porcelain neck pounding hard on his conscience.

“You are mistaken, Mr. Lovelace.”

The words curled around him, the voice rich, deep, melodic.

“There are—and have been—no gentlemen in the garden today.”

She turned, wobbled, straightened, and walked away.

Fitz moved to join her, but George instinctively pulled him back. “Give her a moment,” he whispered. Their solicitousness might be seen as pity. Let her recover her dignity while she made her way back to the other guests.

They trailed at a distance. Instead of taking the path to the house, she continued on toward the drive. Assisted by their host’s grooms, she entered a waiting carriage that immediately pulled away.

George beckoned the grooms, ordered his horse, and wished his brother farewell.

“Don’t mind Glanford,” Fitz said. “He means no harm.”

“No harm? Your friend was abominable. Father would never be so disloyal to Mother.” The lady’s hurt and anger had been palpable.

Yet… he recalled her wealth came from manufacturing. It was said that she’d entered society with the goal of acquiring a title. “Do you suppose Glanford’s lady knew the price of her rise?”

Fitz shrugged. “For the sake of the title, I hope this child is a boy. I doubt there will be any others.”

He thought of her steely-eyed glare. “She’s rather formidable.”

“As is her father, and he won’t be happy when he learns of this. That was Clark’s carriage she climbed into. She’ll be going home to Papa.”

“Older brother or not, Fitz, if you ever treat a lady that way, you’ll have my boot up your arse. Give my thanks to our hostess.”

Fitz returned to the party, and George wandered toward the stable.

“I knew Clark,” a groom said. “A fair man, he was.”

“Aye. An’ what sort of puttock would send his wife off on her own after such news?”

“What’s happened?” George asked.

They exchanged grim glances. “Mr. Clark’s died.”

Hell. He raked a hand through his hair. “Does Lady Glanford know?”

“Aye. Her maid brought her the news.”

Hell and damnation. They should have escorted her. He shouldn’t have held Fitz back. She shouldn’t be alone through this.

And yet…what could he have done for her?

“Hold my horse. I’ll be back directly.”

He found his brother on the terrace and pulled him aside. Fitz could deliver Lady Glanford’s news to his fool of a friend.

Chapter Two

Leicestershire, December 1822

Sophie Halverton, neé Clark, widowed Countess of Glanford, had sworn she was finished playing the dutiful waiting lady.

And yet, here she was, waiting for Lord Loughton’s arrival, watching his mother, Lady Loughton, make the rounds of her drawing room where the family had gathered before the evening’s planned dinner.

The waiting would end tonight, Lady Loughton had promised. Fitz—Lord Loughton—wasn’t a bad sort, nor was his family. She’d bully him into a resolution, with his mother’s help, if needed.

She sipped her sherry and pondered her achievements. She’d convinced Burford, the Glanford steward, he must visit his ailing aunt if he wished to be mentioned in the good woman’s will. The moment he’d cleared Glanford land, she’d helped herself to the estate’s ready cash and organized a paltry bit of Yuletide cheer for the tenants, to be carried out by the vicar and his wife. Then she’d bundled