Mistletoe and Mayhem - Cheryl Bolen Page 0,68

stiffened her spine as she’d done on that long-ago day in the Townsends’ garden, fighting the sudden attraction, holding the piercing blue gaze. Oh, he was delicious, and challenging, and…interested. Heat flooded her insides and rose into her cheeks.

“George.” The Lovelace boys swarmed him and pulled his attention away.

She took in a much-needed breath. She’d won this round.

As the tumult increased, she cast her gaze up the table. Artie squirmed in his seat, watching his friends. At the other end, Lady Loughton’s lips twitched as if fighting a frown. Or a smile.

The woman had ten children, but this new arrival was special to her, and as Fitz said, a favorite of his younger brothers and sisters. He was equally windblown and ruddy-cheeked, and likely showing up for dinner in the same clothing he’d traveled in.

Her own father—another hard-edged man—might have done the same, arriving late from the mill after a business meeting. Her vision blurred again.

She shook herself and glanced around—anywhere but at him.

Across from her, Charlotte, her jaw dropped like a fish ready to take a hook, was craning her neck as this brother went to kiss Lady Loughton.

Loughton was betrothed. Was this brother unmarried?

He might be interested in Charlotte’s fortune. Perhaps he’d be a good match, even without a title.

Sophie lifted her gaze again and found him studying her. He didn’t remember her. Or he did and…his lips twitched into a lopsided grin.

Oh heavens. He was drunk—both men were. While Fitz shouted greetings to all and sundry and ploughed into his dinner, this Lovelace’s gaze devoured her, promising things she’d never experienced.

And perhaps never would. The thought saddened her and cooled her racing heart. She’d once longed for romance, for passion, for true love, but ten years with Glanford…

At her age, it was best for a woman to shed that hope. Charlotte, on the other hand, was young and fresh.

If she was to bring the girl out…Charlotte would have a chance at a full season, a chance to meet someone worthy. Whether or not this Lovelace was worthy was an open question.

He knew her.

But from where? Foxed he might be, but desire flooded George, his gut and other parts recognizing this lady, who was no green girl from Cassandra and Nancy’s school.

He fell into the loveliest gray eyes he’d seen in a long time—wide, and luminous, and equally interested—while his ale-addled brain searched for a name.

Hands tugged at him, and he tore his gaze away, greeting James and Edward.

When he straightened, the lady was staring intently at a boy about Edward’s age, a boy with eyes the same shade as her own.

“Come kiss me, George.”

Mother’s voice pulled his attention from another split-second glimpse of a dark gown and a jeweled cross over a generous bosom.

“Mother.” He kissed her cheek. “You look well. I’ll change in a blink and return for the main course.”

“You will not. You will join us this moment.”

The footman ushered him to a seat across from the lady. His youngest sister, Nancy, sat to his left. The young lady to his right—fair-haired, blue-eyed, and rosy-cheeked—might have been Cassandra’s twin, so much did she resemble her.

He dropped a kiss on Nancy’s cheek, then inclined his head to the two strangers. “How do you do? I’m George Lovelace. One of you must be Cassandra’s school friend visiting for the Yuletide, but which one?”

Next to him, the girl pressed her napkin over a giggle, her cheeks flooding with more color. The other lady went impossibly still and her gaze shuttered.

His breath caught. Face heating, he remembered.

“Do behave George. Lady Glanford, Miss Cartwright, you both know Fitz. This other handsome fellow is my usually punctual son, George.”

Lady Glanford. He’d spent years remembering her hurt, her embarrassment. Her scold: There are no gentlemen in the garden today.

Lessons on gentlemanly behavior from an ironworker’s daughter? Try as he might to shake off the shaming, he was grateful he hadn’t. It had served him well in the wider world of trade.

A bowl of soup appeared and he picked up his spoon. Lady Glanford’s lips moved in a stiffly polite greeting, stirring the devil in him.

Fitz and his fool of a friend, Glanford had been close once, but father had forced a stop to the loans and the gambling. What was she doing here? Had she changed much? Her innate dignity appeared intact. She was seldom in London, and their paths hadn’t crossed there. He’d heard bits and pieces over the years, that the marriage had been preserved, somehow, and that she’d even