For the Earl's Pleasure by Anne Mallory Page A

in her wake.
    The animosity from that exchange had never disappeared. Had in fact grown worse with every scrape undertaken and new meeting discovered.
    Her mother, as usual, was oblivious to the undercurrents. She was leaned forward in her seat, eagerness in every movement and a smile that could light the entire west side of London. Abigail loved her mother dearly, despite their problems, but why couldn’t she see…
    No.
    Abigail rubbed the ribbon running through the middle of her skirt between tight fingers. She just needed to secure a husband. Then her mother could have some social security. Maybe then she would settle like a basset hound instead of bob like a chirping westie.
    Rainewood’s grandmother steered the conversation into increasingly inane topics to which Abigail and her mother continuously failed to submit interesting tidbits. There was a sort of clear victory in their hostess’s eyes, as if everything she had ever thought about the Smarts continued to play forth. Abigail could only wish that she hadn’t had the insane urge to come here and search for Rainewood.
    “Your other charges, Petunia, how are they?” the dowager asked Mrs. Browning. “I must commend you again on the wonderful matches they made. A viscount for the first, to boot. A complete success all the way around no matter what happens.”
    Abigail took a sip of her tea, not tasting the liquid. Not needing to see the significant look that was assuredly being passed from their hostess to Mrs. Browning. A look that said even if, when , Abigail failed, Mrs. Browning would still be a success. And at least she’d have a much fuller purse for having gone through the trial of the Smarts.
    “Yes, Viscountess Berston is a lovely title and match.” Mrs. Browning touched her hair with her palm, then took her cup in hand. “Your grandson is quite the catch as well. Too bad that he was away when my niece Violet made her debut.”
    The dowager inclined her head, tension forming about her eyes at the mention of the missing earl. “Yes, that would have been a splendid match. Violet is such a dear. And already two sons for Mr. Sestner. She would have made a fine duchess. And the fertile nature of the stock is a point in your family’s favor.”
    Abigail coughed violently, her cup sloshing a drop of tea over the side.
    The Duchess of Palmbury’s pinched features grew more pointed. “But some things, alas, cannot be overcome by—”
    “Duchess, Mrs. Browning, Mrs. Smart, Miss Smart. Heston just informed me you had arrived.”
    Abigail admired the timing of Rainewood’s younger brother in absenting himself for five minutes of their fifteen-minute visit. Though it was slightly bad form to appear so late, he was able to stretch protocol with a charmed smile. Not finding much use for protocol herself, she had to respect his escape from the inanity.
    She gave him a firm nod with her greeting. One groomed brow rose in acknowledgment. Despite having known each other as children, they usually ignored one another out of the discomfort that arose from her feud with his brother.
    He was greeted by the other women in turn and he sat down to make quick small talk for the time they had remaining. Lord Basil Danforth, sickly throughout his youth, had turned his frequent convalescences into extreme cleverness. Seemingly, the time that he had spent abed had allowed him to plot out his own future apart from his domineering father and grandparents.
    Because of his illnesses she had never known him well. Instead she had spent her days with the unruly, forgotten middle child who had been abandoned by his father—for the heir—and by his mother—for the sickly second spare.
    But now it seemed as if the sick child, who no one had expected to make it through childhood, would have the last laugh.
    Basil would do well as the future duke. Affable with pleasant features. The type of man who didn’t raise men’s hackles, and who was a conversational hit with the ladies. If