Redeeming the Reclusive Earl - Virginia Heath Page 0,24
stood. He hadn’t been all flirty smiles and charm in the beginning and then standoffish once he realised she was too intelligent for her own good. That was a first and one which allowed her to be herself before him unhindered by the knowledge one wrong word or question would damage their relationship.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Of course I am sure. We both want to know more about your fascinating work here. Perhaps you could bring some of those artefacts you were just telling me about?’
‘I suppose I could...’
‘I know he was rude yesterday. He really does not mean to be. The last few years have been...difficult for him and...’ For the first time the friendly smile faltered and Mrs Baxter appeared immensely troubled before she waved it away as if it was no matter, leaving Effie wondering exactly what had gone on. ‘Well—suffice to say he is not himself and his bark is much worse than his bite. Please come to dinner. I shall be leaving on Saturday and I should like to get to know you better before I go.’
‘That is very kind of you—I should love to come.’ She felt the loneliness keenest at mealtimes which nowadays, since Lord Richard’s passing, were always on her own.
‘Splendid... Is there somebody else you would like to bring with you? A fiancé or beau we can invite, perhaps?’
‘Neither a fiancé nor a beau, Mrs Baxter.’ And pigs might fly.
The older woman beamed. ‘Dinner for three it is, then. We eat at eight. Or thereabouts.’
* * *
She had ridden off before Effie had had the foresight to ask how formal the meal was going to be. Which meant she had stared too long at the contents of her wardrobe with uncharacteristic indecision as the hands of the clock chimed seven and now had her practically running down her host’s drive to avoid being late, clutching her bouncing cleavage in a gown she already bitterly regretted. But in a nod to fashion, and entirely because she had felt uncomfortably dowdy up against Mrs Baxter’s effortless up-to-the-minute style, she had donned it simply to prove she was capable of looking more glamourous and ladylike than the average potato sack. Less muddy, too. She had scrubbed her poor hands nearly raw in the bath in her quest to get her nails clean and even press-ganged the maid to do something fancy with her hair. By the time she was done, she hardly recognised the woman in her looking glass and was quietly pleased with her reflection.
However, remorse had set in as soon as she left the house and began walking towards Rivenhall. Only then had she learned the pretty coral silk was entirely decorative and not the least bit practical. It was much too low. So low, that any movement on her part beyond a sedate glide proved too much for the neckline to contain what she had stuffed into it. Gravity was apparently its nemesis. She would have to keep her shawl clamped tightly around her all evening in case the flesh beneath made a sudden break for freedom and proved Newton’s third law unequivocally in front of her hosts.
Effie darted behind the screen of a shrubbery to wrestle all the displaced parts of her person back into the gown, then carefully arranged the stupid, filmy shawl she had paired with the impractical gown to cover the vast expanse of skin she had on show before gingerly climbing the steps to the front door without displacing it all again.
* * *
If Max was ever going to get rid of Eleanor in days rather than weeks, he had quickly realised he needed to categorically prove to her he was coping as well with life as he claimed he was. That meant making a good show of going through all the expected motions and masking the bleak hopelessness until her blasted carriage was hurtling back up his new drive bound for London. To that end, he had given her an extensive tour of the house and gardens this morning, then pretended he had urgent estate matters to attend to all afternoon as an excuse to hole himself up in his study and count the books on the bookshelf in between staring at the walls.