they’re the same pure blue as a brilliant summer sky.”
A male voice—Lord Darlington’s, presumably—said something Cecilia couldn’t hear in response, but it sounded as if the party was getting closer.
Oh, why must I have such dreadful luck?
“His Grace insisted it’s as if the sun himself smiles down upon her, and indeed, I can’t but agree with him,” Mrs. Honeywell declared, as if not quite satisfied with the homage being paid to her daughter’s beauty. “Just look, Lord Darlington, at how even these feeble rays turn Fanny’s hair into a halo of gold.”
A halo of gold? Cecilia’s breath escaped in a frosty huff. Surely, that was doing it a bit brown—
“You look lovely, Miss Honeywell. As dazzling as a summer day.” Lord Darlington’s deep voice carried clearly through the frigid air, and Cecilia looked up just in time to see him raise Miss Honeywell’s dainty hand to his lips. The winter sun toyed with Miss Honeywell’s hair, highlighting the gilded curls to great effect, like a…
Halo of gold, blast it.
Cecilia glanced wildly around, but short of leaping into the shrubbery and dragging poor Isabella with her, there was no place to hide.
And then, it was too late.
There was no escape. Lord Darlington’s party was upon them, and they were taking up the whole of the pathway. Lord Darlington had Miss Honeywell on his arm, and behind him was Lord Haslemere, escorting Mrs. Honeywell. She was preening as if the entire upper ten thousand was watching her, but Lord Haslemere looked as if he wished himself under the thin layer of ice crusting Darlington Lake.
Mrs. Honeywell was still prattling on about halos and blue skies, oblivious to everything around her, but Lord Haslemere met Cecilia’s gaze and, quick as lightning, comically crossed his eyes.
It was so unexpected Cecilia had to bite her lip to smother a laugh. It was wicked of her to laugh at poor Lord Haslemere’s predicament, but his droll expression had put her in mind of Georgiana when she was attempting to explain mathematics to the duller pupils at the Clifford School.
“Good afternoon,” Lord Darlington called as his party approached. “Is that you under all those layers, Isabella?”
Isabella giggled. “Yes, it is! You’re silly, Uncle.”
“I hardly recognized you.” Lord Darlington chucked Isabella under the chin before turning his attention to Cecilia. “Good afternoon, Cecilia.”
Cecilia swallowed. His tone was pleasant enough, his address utterly polite and proper. To look at him now, one would never believe he was the same man who’d teased her last night—who’d taken her hand so carefully in his and stroked her palm with his fingertip, his eyes a hot, dark blue.
The wind was taking liberties with him, tousling the thick, dark locks of his hair and biting color into his cheeks. His snug, buff-colored breeches showed off the long, muscular line of his legs to perfection, and the blue of the coat he wore under his long, dark cloak perfectly matched the color of his eyes.
She’d never seen him look as handsome as he did today. Perhaps he’d taken greater care than usual with his appearance in order to charm Miss Honeywell.
Cecilia squirmed at the thought.
She tore her gaze away from him, shifting her attention to the shrubs, the lake, the half-boots on her feet until Lord Haslemere’s quiet cough recalled her attention, and she realized with warming cheeks she hadn’t replied to Lord Darlington’s greeting.
“Er…good afternoon, my lord.” Cecilia dropped into a belated curtsy. “Lord Haslemere, and Mrs. and Miss Honeywell,” she added, with a polite nod. “Isabella and I thought we’d have a walk this afternoon while the sun’s shining.”
Mrs. Honeywell let out a scandalized gasp. Cecilia jerked her head toward the woman, and found Mrs. Honeywell staring at her, outraged. “Isabella? Is that how you address the Marquess of Darlington’s niece, girl?”
Cecilia blinked. It was a foolish question, really, given that was the child’s name. “Well, Isabella Olivia Cornelia is rather a mouthful. Too many syllables for such a small little bit of a thing. Isabella suits her better, I think.”
“It does, indeed.” Lord Haslemere agreed, taking Cecilia’s side.
“She’s Lady Isabella to you, impertinent chit.” Mrs. Honeywell shot Cecilia a look colder than the wind. “You may be certain my servants don’t address the family so familiarly.” She settled her ostrich feathers with a violent twitch, but her sneer faded when she noticed Lord Darlington’s frown, and she quickly pasted on a bright, false smile. “This is Lady Isabella then, my lord? Let’s have a look at her, shall we?”
Cecilia would have