The Problem with Seduction - By Emma Locke Page 0,89
for Con to escort her, but she saw the question in his amber-colored eyes even from ten paces. What were they doing here?
“Welcome, Lady Elizabeth,” he said, taking her hand, and though she might have expected him to use the name she’d been raised with, it still startled her. Beside her Con stiffened, as he had when he’d seemed jealous earlier. Though why Lord Trestin using her formal name should disturb him, she had no idea.
“Thank you.” She withdrew her hand from the reassuring grip of the man who had taken care of her when her own brother, a man of God, had never so much as sent her a letter. “You’re most kind to invite us here. We would have been comfortable enough in the cottage, I should say.” She smiled to take the edge from her admonishment.
“I wouldn’t hear of it. Not when there are so many empty rooms here.” His amber eyes darkened, perhaps at the thought of his sisters, who had filled Worston’s bright hallways with friendly bickering and the occasional tantrum, until they’d set out on their own after the last London Season ended.
The butler appeared at the top of the stairs. He took one look at Mrs. Dalton and the baby and scrambled down in an agile display at odds with his years. Before Elizabeth could exchange a word with Mrs. Dalton, the young nurse was whisked away. Two footmen materialized and began unloading the trunks and hatboxes.
It seemed Elizabeth really did have no choice in the matter. They would benefit from Lord Trestin’s hospitality, whether they wanted it or not.
After giving her one last questioning look, Trestin turned his attention to Con. They touched the brims of their beaver hats and sized each other up. Celeste would have laughed at their bluster, but Elizabeth had always preferred to observe without drawing attention to herself. Con’s earlier description of the viscount and their childhood left her curious.
“I trust you arrived without issue?” Trestin asked.
Con nodded. “Brixcombe seems exactly the way I left it. Time stands still here, doesn’t it?”
A twinkle came into Trestin’s eye but he didn’t smile. “It did.” Then he caught Elizabeth’s smile and cleared his throat, perhaps moments away from returning her chuckle—nothing he would want to do too soon in front of a virtual stranger. “Lady Trestin is resting,” he said, “but will be down for dinner soon.” His tone turned scolding. “I know that last leg from London stretches interminably, but you’re late. Nordstrom will set you up in your rooms, but I fear there is little time for ablutions before you will need to join me in my drawing room.”
Elizabeth tugged Con’s arm. “Heavens, if things are that dire, please see me in now. I won’t be down to dinner in this dusty gown and by God, I won’t keep Lord Trestin from his schedule.”
Trestin smiled his first real smile since they’d arrived. “Your consideration is appreciated.” He had very little room in his world for exceptions, but he did know how to laugh at himself.
Elizabeth bit back a rejoinder lest Con think she was flirting. It wasn’t an easy thing to do. She hadn’t warmed to Trestin as quickly as Celeste had, but once she’d learned to recognize his wit she’d found she could banter with him endlessly. That was before he’d married Celeste, and before Elizabeth had concerned herself in any way with rules of propriety. Flirting with one’s best friend’s husband showed poor form. She cared about that now.
They followed Trestin up Worston’s granite steps and into a foyer. It opened to an entryway lit by windows built into the supporting structure of a massive onion dome ceiling. Con’s childhood memories likely didn’t extend to an appreciation of Byzantine architecture. He must be seeing it all as if for the first time. He didn’t make any murmurs of appreciation or gasps of surprise, though, as she had when she’d first entered Worston, but he did tip his head back to examine the fresco painted on the inside of the dome and scuffed his boot along the black and white tile floor.
The next quarter hour was a blur of fabric and ribbons as Elizabeth doffed her traveling gown and tidied up her simple chignon with the help of Mrs. Dalton’s agile hands. Belatedly she realized Oliver would have to be fed. She then spent another quarter hour giving him milk and bread and rocking him to sleep—and feeling horribly derelict for her lapse. It wasn’t that