beautiful flower indeed.”
The genuine look of pleasure on his face intrigued me. He appeared almost proud of whoever suggested the flowers. I wanted very much to ask him who had been his informant, but I bit my tongue. It would appear rude and I feared many of my aunt’s American traits were beginning to rub off on me already. Being overtly inquisitive was one of them.
“Mr. Fletcher,” Lord Ashington said then, as he directed his gaze to the other guest in the room, who had remained silent since the arrival of Lord Ashington.
“Lord Ashington,” he replied with a nod then stood, twisting his hands rather nervously. “I must be on my way. It was as always lovely to see you, Miss Bathurst. I look forward to our next meeting. Perhaps at the Gallagher ball.” He spoke so quickly that his sentences ran together, but the slight tremble of nerves in his tone was still noticeable.
“Yes, I shall see you there. Thank you again for the lovely flowers and visit,” I said, feeling sorry for him but knowing he must not be so hasty to flee any small obstacle. It made him appear weak.
I watched him nod his head again at Lord Ashington before he scurried for the door. He mustn’t scurry either. It was not at all an attractive trait. Someone needed to take him under their wing and teach him how to be more assured or at least how to act as if he were. He was a nice man and could make a fine match if he would simply show more backbone.
The butler stepped into the door just before Mr. Fletcher could exit.
“A Mr. Nicholas Compton here to see Miss Bathurst,” he announced.
I could have sworn I heard Mr. Fletcher gasp then cough as if strangled before making his way past the butler with great haste. Apparently, Mr. Fletcher didn’t care for Mr. Compton any more than he did the Earl of Ashington.
“Oh my,” I heard Aunt Harriet whisper entirely too loudly to truly be a whisper and that was when I remembered the gossip she had shared with me at the ball just before I encountered Mr. Compton on the balcony.
Oh my, indeed…
Chapter Seven
Mr. Nicholas Compton
One could argue that I wasn’t expecting my brother to be at 18 Mayfair but that wasn’t entirely true. It had been a gamble of sorts and I was talented in that regard. Ashington should have been at Miss Ramsbury’s home at 7 Grosvenor; however, he was weak when it came to beauty and Miss Bathurst did make Miss Ramsbury appear rather pale in comparison. I asked myself who I would pay a visit to this morning if I were to truly be in search of a wife. The answer was easy enough and although we shared a hatred for one another, we oft thought alike. Perhaps our father shone through in me more than I cared to admit. My mother had believed it to be true as well; she had surely said so throughout my life.
“Ashington,” I greeted as his glare met my own amused gaze. I then turned my attention to Miriam Bathurst because, after all, she was why we were gathered here, was she not? “Good morning, Miss Bathurst. You are as breathtaking in the light of day as you are in the moonlight,” I stated, knowing that couldn’t always be said for a lady in society. I’d brought her six yellow roses that I carried in the crook of my left arm but in my right hand, I held the posies I had brought for her aunt. If one wanted to impress the lady then one must flatter the mother, or in this case, the aunt. Wisdom my own mother had shared with me. Not that I had ever truly planned on impressing a lady any further than getting under her skirts.
“You have a beautiful home,” I informed her aunt then held the posies out to her.
She blushed like a debutant and gushed over the flowers. With a slight bow, I then turned to Miss Bathurst and held out the roses, a most unique shade of yellow. They had reminded me of creamy butter and I’d wanted them for her. She was unique and deserved something just so. This might be nothing more than a game for me, but Miriam Bathurst was indeed special.
“For you,” I said.
She smiled sincerely at me for what might be the first time and I realized it was a dangerous weapon. The way