Mistletoe and Mayhem - Cheryl Bolen Page 0,69

given her feckless husband a spare.

Head tilted, she listened to Cassandra’s babble whilst studying the new plate set before her, completely uninterested in both.

Her gaze lifted and met his, and held…and held…and…

Cassandra spoke, and the lady’s eyes flashed irritation before turning away and releasing him for a view of the same porcelain neck with its pounding pulse.

Age had softened her. She’d been an attractive girl, but she’d grown into a beautiful woman. And with Glanford’s death a year earlier, she was now a beautiful widow.

Was she the reason Fitz had delayed his wedding?

He shook off the thought. Fitz was more gentlemanly than Glanford, but when deep in his cups, he wasn’t discreet. If he’d been dallying with Glanford’s widow, he’d have mentioned it at the inn.

In his own liaisons, he’d taken the Glanfords’ unwitting lessons to heart. He didn’t pay actresses or ladybirds. His lovers were widows who relished their freedom, and he made sure he never left them unsatisfied.

This particular lady was free, and luminous, and…a challenge. And the house, Fitz had said, was bound to be filled with mistletoe…

Had Lady Glanford ever learned the pleasures of carnal love? And would Mother slay him if he pursued her?

His elbow brushed the flounce of a gown, and tension sparked in the guest next to him. The gray eyes across from him narrowed on the point where his sleeve touched Miss Cartwright’s.

Nancy leaned close. “Why are you late, George? Did the wheel fall off your chariot? Did your horse pull you into a ditch? Were you beset by a highwayman?”

He elbowed her. “You minx. You’re reading too many novels. It was nothing so entertaining. Merely snow. Bushels of it in Yorkshire. Dreadful weather, and the temperature is dropping. We’ll have snow here soon as well.”

“No one has introduced our friend.” That was Edward, piping up in his little boy’s voice.

A throat cleared across from him, and the lovely widow gestured toward Fitz’s end of the table.

“Mr. Lovelace, meet my son, Arthur, Lord Glanford.”

A new thrill rippled through him. He remembered her husky voice.

A dignified waif like his mother, the boy delivered a gentlemanly greeting, a contrast to the barbarian Lovelace boys.

“What of your railway?” James called. “Have you started laying the tracks?”

“Don’t bore us with talk of railways,” Cassandra said. “Tell us who you’ve been visiting. How is your friend, the duke?”

“He hasn’t been visiting the duke,” James said. “And if you bothered to learn anything besides embroidery, you’d know railways are not boring.”

“My grandfather built a railway,” Lord Glanford said.

Fitz looked up from his plate. “Did he indeed, Artie?”

A memory stirred: years earlier, Glanford had asked Fitz to serve as the boy’s guardian in the event of his death. Father had urged him to decline, to cut ties with the earl. Yet here he was, on a familiar basis with the boy.

Lady Glanford’s lips turned up in an encouraging smile that made his breath tighten again.

“It was in Shropshire,” the boy said.

George cast about in his mind for a Glanford who’d built a railway.

“Ah,” Fitz said. “You mean Clark.”

Lady Glanford’s father had been a partner in an ironworks. But in all George’s preparation for this project, he’d not seen any mention of Clark building a railway.

“It was at the ironworks in Shropshire.” Lady Glanford’s voice filled the awkward silence. “At the time, my father was learning his trade, and he helped cast the iron for a small railway meant to run through the works.”

Her son nodded. “It was an experiment to use iron for the rails instead of wood.”

His mother’s face filled with pride.

She’d been with child, that day in the garden, the day she’d learned of her father’s death. Young Glanford had not heard this proud tale from the man himself. He’d heard it from his mother.

“And did it succeed, Arthur?” Mother asked.

“Not at first, but…Mama can tell it better.”

Gray eyes glowing, Lady Glanford bestowed another fond smile on her son, before glancing at Cassandra who was pulling a face at her plate. The Lovelace girls were as barbarous as the boys.

“Glanford,” George said. “I’ll hear the story from you, but we’d best wait because the ladies will find it boring.”

“Oh no, my mother will not be bored, and she knows far more about iron working than I do.”

When he glanced across the table, Lady Glanford had focused an intense look on her son, delivering some unspoken maternal instruction.

“But of course,” the boy said. “I will look forward to speaking with you another time, sir.”

George’s plate disappeared, and another