So here he was, committed to Lady Basing’s house party for the holidays. Not simply as her guest but as a prospective son-in-law.
A chill traced down his spine like the brush of a feather. Almost, he wished he had not come.
Julia took his arm with a proprietary air to present him to the local squire and his two unmarried sisters.
The squire, Tom Whitmore, was a young man with thick dark whiskers that did nothing to disguise his very square jaw or his frown.
Possibly he disapproved of bastards, however well connected. Or perhaps he would look askance on any rival for Miss Basing’s affections.
He stuck out his jaw belligerently. “What brings you to Moulton, Hartfell?”
He needed to marry money. Soon. Or crawl back to Amherst at Fair Hill. The rent on the Maiden Lane house was only paid through the end of the month.
“I am here at Lady Basing’s invitation,” Lucien said.
The squire’s square jaw became even squarer. “You have no family who require your attendance over the holiday?”
It was a challenge, by thunder. A reference to his bastard status.
Whitmore’s sisters looked anxious. Julia Basing caught her breath.
“I am fortunate to be free to follow my personal inclinations,” Lucien said.
Whitmore glared. “And those are?”
Lucien smiled thinly. “Personal.”
The sticky silence was broken by a rush at the door as a late arrival caught herself on the threshold. Lucien had an impression of bouncing dark curls and a wide, heart-shaped face before the woman lowered her head, slipping quietly into the room. Her unobtrusive demeanor was so at odds with her animated expression that his attention was caught. He narrowed his eyes, taking in her lace-trimmed cap and shapeless, faded gown. There were no rings on her fingers, no jewels around her neck.
Not a guest, then. Nor quite a servant. Most likely a poor relation, one of the army of drab, dependent, unmarried females clinging to shabby gentility in the corners of England’s drawing rooms, indispensable and invisible to their wealthier relatives.
Normally he would not even have noticed her. But the energy of her entrance lingered a moment, charging the stale air like a blowing storm.
Lady Basing reclaimed his attention, leading the way into the dining room.
Despite his lack of title, he found himself paired with Miss Basing at dinner. Amherst’s lineage, of course, was impeccable. And Lucien was connected, however irregularly, with Amherst. If Leyburn were truly his, if he were the man of property he pretended to be, he would be considered an acceptable match for a baronet’s daughter.
He wondered how much time he had before Sir Walter demanded an accounting of his prospects.
He forced himself to listen to Miss Basing chatter about the Season just past—her first—about whom she had met and what she had worn and which gentlemen she had danced with. He sipped his wine, bored almost out of his mind. Fortunately, as long as he inserted compliments at appropriate intervals, Miss Basing did not appear to find his attention lacking.
Across the table, her brother, Howard Basing, made sly observations to the Misses Whitmore on either side. Lucien knew Julia’s brother only by sight, brown-haired, handsome, with sharp white collar points and teeth.
A few places farther down, the poor relation divided her conversation between a country gentleman old enough to be her grandfather and a spotty boy barely out of the schoolroom. Lucien was not close enough to overhear a word of their conversation. But something about her compelled his notice.
Beneath her cap, she had strongly arched brows and thick black lashes, a wide, curved mouth and a charmingly blunted chin. She tilted her head—the better to hear her elderly dinner partner?—when suddenly, for no reason at all, she raised her gaze across the table.
Eyes as blue as the October sky stared into his.
The charge this time sizzled clear to his toes. Like the shock of recognition, a bolt of lightning, a jolt of longing.
She was almost familiar to him. Not Nephilim, despite her angel’s face. She was . . . He didn’t know what she was. His hand curled around his wineglass.
She did not immediately drop her gaze as any well-bred lady ought, as any meek companion must. She stared back at him, her lips parted, her eyes wide and dark. He watched her take one swift, deep breath, giving shape to her shapeless dress, and his own breathing stopped.
Her lashes swept down. With a visible effort, she collected herself, turning to address a remark to the spotty youth at her side. The boy flushed and launched into speech.
Lucien released his grip on the glass. His hand shook slightly.