Carola Dunn by Lord Roworth's Reward Page A

response at the time.
    Admittedly, after the dinner last night he had called on his mistress, but only to find her gone. Katrina Lisle had left a letter for him, explaining that in view of flying rumours she had sought refuge with relatives near Bruges. Under the circumstances, he wasn’t sure whether his continence counted as a virtue.
    Virtue, however, was not his chief purpose in going to church. He knew that Lady Sophia had far too great a sense of propriety to turn her back if he addressed her in the church yard afterwards.
    In a modest walking dress of Pomona green silk, and a thoroughly immodest bonnet with no less than five green and white ostrich feathers, the Goddess was a delectable sight. Major Sir Henry Bissell shared a pew with the Daventrys, his smug air suggesting that he considered he had stolen a march on the count, who was, of course, a Catholic. The dark Rifle green of his uniform admirably set off Lady Sophia’s lighter green gown. He was not at all pleased when Felix approached them after the service.
    “Good day, Lady Sophia.”
    “Good day, my lord.” She was reserved but not, he thought, more so than usual.
    They exchanged commonplaces on the weather and then, knowing that she would spend the afternoon at home reading sermons, he requested, “May I have the pleasure of riding with you in the park tomorrow?”
    She looked unwontedly uncertain. “Thank you, sir. I have been invited to the Guards’ cricket match at Enghien...”
    “Lord Roworth.” Her mother, who had been chatting to a friend, turned towards them. “I cannot allow Sophie to go so far as Enghien squired only by those delightful--but so very young!--Guardsmen, even though the Duke was quite positive last night that Bonaparte is still in Paris. As it happens, Daventry and I are otherwise engaged tomorrow.”
    “I am on duty,” said Bissell, scowling, then added with a hint of malice, “and even for Lady Sophia’s sake, St Gérard will have nothing whatsoever to do with that English madness called cricket.”
    Taking Lady Daventry’s hint, pleased with her confidence in him, Felix said promptly, “I shall be honoured to escort Lady Sophia, if you will entrust her to me, ma’am.”
    “Most kind,” said the marchioness, bestowing a smile of approval. “You will be quite safe with Lord Roworth, Sophie.”
    “Yes, Mama,” she murmured.
    In the event, the outing proved singularly tedious. Though Felix had enjoyed playing cricket in what he was rapidly coming to think of as his distant youth, as an uninvolved spectator he found it boring. Besides, he received only a third share of Lady Sophia’s scrupulously divided attention, since Lord Albert and his fellow-ensign accompanied them. Their puppylike infatuation with the Goddess he found only briefly amusing. Nor did he enjoy the good-natured but dismissive way they treated him as a venerable elder, and a civilian at that.
    “As if I were ninety, not nine-and-twenty!” he exploded to Fanny when he reached home. She giggled. “And as if a pair of colours were the only important thing in the world.”
    At that she looked sad. “Those Hyde Park soldiers will learn soon enough what war is about, poor boys.”
    “What’s Hyde Park?” Anita asked. “Is there swans there, like in our park?”
    So Felix took her on his lap and told her about the swans and ducks on the Serpentine, and of the fashionable parade every fine afternoon during the London Season, where ladies showed off their best hats.
    “Tía Fanny weared her best hat today, when we did feed the swans. Tío Cav said it is dev’ish smart.”
    “Anita, you must not repeat that word,” said Fanny, and then she caught Felix’s eye and they both burst out laughing, for no particular reason that he could afterwards discern.
    He was glad he had bought her the devilish smart hat, even if that was not quite how he’d have described it. Was Mercer in love with her, to throw compliments about like that? She deserved