A Duke by Any Other Name by Grace Burrowes Page 0,62

a ducal heir, after all. I’m sure he’s much missed by the hostesses.”

Ellenbrook sent Althea a glance, part long-suffering, part humor. “As best I can recall,” he said, “Lord Stephen is an indifferent participant in the London whirl. He accepts a few invitations, but has interests that appeal to him more strongly than do social calls and gossip.”

Not quite true. Stephen loved gossip, though he could be as discreet as a fence post when it mattered. “He accepts the invitations that our sister-in-law, Jane, Duchess of Walden, tells him to accept. Stephen holds her in quite high regard, as do we all.”

Stephen avoided any entertainment that involved dancing or significant walking. Card parties, musicales, boating parties he endured with cheerful bad humor. Balls, rural breakfasts, assemblies he eschewed.

“I will abandon you for a few moments to see about the tea,” Althea said. “This parlor was the last one to be redecorated. Let me know what you think of the appointments.”

Miss Price had taken a seat on the end of the sofa, like a broody hen claiming her nesting box. At Althea’s invitation, she glanced about as if actually seeing the parlor for the first time.

Althea sent a footman to the kitchen and took five minutes to trade boots for house slippers, change her dress, and tidy her hair. By the time she returned to the parlor, the same footman had arrived with a full tray.

“The tray can go on the low table, Timothy. Thank you.”

Monsieur Henri had risen to the occasion, as usual. Cakes, tarts, sandwiches, two teapots, and all the trimmings had been artfully arranged on the tray along with a vase holding three daffodils.

Althea served her guests, finding a blessed sense of normalcy in talk of the weather—lovely—the tea—also lovely—and the benefits of allowing cats abovestairs—not always lovely, but there was Septimus, daring Althea to betray his majesty before callers.

“Where can Lord Stephen be?” Miss Price asked when she’d finished her first cup of gunpowder.

The question was marginally rude, but then, for Miss Price to boast of having met a ducal heir would likely sustain her for days.

“He’s a bit horse-mad,” Ellenbrook said, “as I recall. If the stable lads asked his opinion on a new foal or wanted him to look at a carriage horse going a bit off, he will be lost to us until Sunday.”

“Just so,” Althea said. “A bit horse-mad, a bit machine-mad, a bit book-mad. My brother’s curiosity is never-ending, and his ability to resist the many questions posed by his imagination almost nonexistent. Would you like some more tea, Miss Price? And you never did tell me what you think of this wallpaper.”

Miss Price had not expressed an opinion other than “lovely” for the duration of the visit. She had taken the most predictable seat in the room immediately upon being invited to sit. Her dress was in the first stare of last year’s fashions, and she had not a hair out of place nor a speck of mud upon her hems. She was not pretty in the blonde, blue-eyed sense, but her dark hair and green eyes were attractive, and her figure quite feminine. She dressed fashionably, and her aunt was a formidable ally.

So why did Althea feel a reluctant sense of pity for the young woman?

Stephen did join them, his toilet immaculate, only a single cane in his hand. He nonetheless bowed to Miss Price and took the place beside her on the sofa.

“Don’t listen to his flattery, Miss Price,” Althea said. “You have the good fortune to be seated in proximity to the tray, and his lordship makes the locusts of Egypt look trifling by comparison.”

“I’m a man of appetites,” Stephen said. “All that fresh air, you know.” He sent Miss Price a charming smile, and she rewarded him with a smack on the arm.

Ellenbrook looked out the window.

Althea had the sense the viscount was trying not to yawn—or laugh. When he met her gaze, he winked.

“Ignore my brother, Miss Price,” Althea said. “He thinks he can scandalize sophisticated young women with his flirtation. You encourage him at your peril.”

“I need no encouragement,” Stephen said, dipping the corner of an apple tart into his tea. “I have the inspiration of Miss Price’s fair countenance, which would move any sighted man to raptures. Also, these tarts are quite good. My compliments to Monsieur Henri.”

“You have a French chef?” Miss Price asked.

“Monsieur is from Algiers, though he trained mostly in Paris.”

The talk wandered from there, pleasantly so. Althea was a proper