a moment’s wait. The introductions left Lucien standing to one side where he had an uninterrupted view of Miss Fletcher.
Now he remembered her. He had never spent a great deal of time at Weybridge Castle, but now and then, on their random visits, there had been some local function in which they had all taken part. More than once, he recalled, the duke had thrown a huge gathering of all the surrounding neighbors. They had wandered around the castle grounds— eating, drinking, playing games.
On those occasions Chloe Fletcher had been a much younger pest who insisted on tagging along after his sisters, who in turn had insisted on tagging along after him. That was all he remembered, but he recognized Chloe’s face.
She looked just short of fragile, and she appeared even younger than he knew she must be. Her face was small and triangular—he’d have known her anywhere just from that, for how many females had such a marked resemblance to a cat? Enormous and almost luminous green eyes; a pointed chin; high, classic cheekbones—yes, she was definitely feline in nature.
She was no longer the skinny and awkward girl he remembered, the one who regularly fell over her own feet—or over a blade of grass or a ray of sunlight. She was taller than either of his sisters, and in another contrast she was very fair, with golden hair and pale skin that showed up dramatically next to Isabel’s and Emily’s darker coloring. Though Chloe was still slender, she had filled out nicely—her muslin morning dress, though modestly cut, was stylish, and it hinted at intriguing curves underneath. Her clumsiness had gone as well; her curtseys were perfect.
If Chloe’s mother had groomed her daughter to win a title—as she no doubt had, Lucien thought irritably— Lady Fletcher couldn’t have done a better job. No wonder the Earl of Chiswick thought Chloe would make a perfect second wife.
At least, she seemed flawless on the surface. But if someone were to scratch that elegant surface, what would he find? Was it only Lucien’s imagination that said she was not attending to the earl but instead stealing looks under her lashes at Cousin Gavin?
“What a shame Sir George is not at home, Lord Chiswick,” Lady Fletcher murmured. “His responsibilities as a justice of the peace often take him away, I’m afraid.”
“And Mr. Lancaster?” the earl asked smoothly.
“He rode with Sir George, saying he would like to observe the proceedings.”
Lancaster? Lucien caught the look on Emily’s face and recalled the plain mister that the earl had most recently tried to match her up with.
He strolled across to her and muttered, “He’s running for his life, I suppose.”
“I should prefer to think he is showing sensitivity to a woman who rejected him by not forcing a meeting,” Emily said under her breath.
Well, that was barely possible, Lucien supposed—though if it had been him, he’d have made himself scarce in fear that the lady might change her mind.
“But I have a most excellent notion,” Lady Fletcher exclaimed. “You must all come back to Mallowan to dine with us tomorrow—and the dear duke, too, of course, if he is able. We are nearing the full moon, so it should be a wonderful night for a drive. We cannot offer a great deal in the way of entertainment, but we can manage cards and a little music for dancing.”
Lucien tuned out the nonsense in favor of closely watching Chloe. She sat near her mother, exchanging a few words now and then with Isabel and Emily. But he noted that her gaze wandered over the group. Maxwell she dismissed with a glance, and so far as he could see she barely acknowledged that the Earl of Chiswick was present.
He thought her pretense of disinterest a little overdone—just a bit too ingenuous to be real.
Only once did she look directly at Lucien, and for a moment her eyes seemed to flash with a challenge. But most often, he noted, she looked at Gavin.
“Miss Fletcher might show us your gardens,
Now he remembered her. He had never spent a great deal of time at Weybridge Castle, but now and then, on their random visits, there had been some local function in which they had all taken part. More than once, he recalled, the duke had thrown a huge gathering of all the surrounding neighbors. They had wandered around the castle grounds— eating, drinking, playing games.
On those occasions Chloe Fletcher had been a much younger pest who insisted on tagging along after his sisters, who in turn had insisted on tagging along after him. That was all he remembered, but he recognized Chloe’s face.
She looked just short of fragile, and she appeared even younger than he knew she must be. Her face was small and triangular—he’d have known her anywhere just from that, for how many females had such a marked resemblance to a cat? Enormous and almost luminous green eyes; a pointed chin; high, classic cheekbones—yes, she was definitely feline in nature.
She was no longer the skinny and awkward girl he remembered, the one who regularly fell over her own feet—or over a blade of grass or a ray of sunlight. She was taller than either of his sisters, and in another contrast she was very fair, with golden hair and pale skin that showed up dramatically next to Isabel’s and Emily’s darker coloring. Though Chloe was still slender, she had filled out nicely—her muslin morning dress, though modestly cut, was stylish, and it hinted at intriguing curves underneath. Her clumsiness had gone as well; her curtseys were perfect.
If Chloe’s mother had groomed her daughter to win a title—as she no doubt had, Lucien thought irritably— Lady Fletcher couldn’t have done a better job. No wonder the Earl of Chiswick thought Chloe would make a perfect second wife.
At least, she seemed flawless on the surface. But if someone were to scratch that elegant surface, what would he find? Was it only Lucien’s imagination that said she was not attending to the earl but instead stealing looks under her lashes at Cousin Gavin?
“What a shame Sir George is not at home, Lord Chiswick,” Lady Fletcher murmured. “His responsibilities as a justice of the peace often take him away, I’m afraid.”
“And Mr. Lancaster?” the earl asked smoothly.
“He rode with Sir George, saying he would like to observe the proceedings.”
Lancaster? Lucien caught the look on Emily’s face and recalled the plain mister that the earl had most recently tried to match her up with.
He strolled across to her and muttered, “He’s running for his life, I suppose.”
“I should prefer to think he is showing sensitivity to a woman who rejected him by not forcing a meeting,” Emily said under her breath.
Well, that was barely possible, Lucien supposed—though if it had been him, he’d have made himself scarce in fear that the lady might change her mind.
“But I have a most excellent notion,” Lady Fletcher exclaimed. “You must all come back to Mallowan to dine with us tomorrow—and the dear duke, too, of course, if he is able. We are nearing the full moon, so it should be a wonderful night for a drive. We cannot offer a great deal in the way of entertainment, but we can manage cards and a little music for dancing.”
Lucien tuned out the nonsense in favor of closely watching Chloe. She sat near her mother, exchanging a few words now and then with Isabel and Emily. But he noted that her gaze wandered over the group. Maxwell she dismissed with a glance, and so far as he could see she barely acknowledged that the Earl of Chiswick was present.
He thought her pretense of disinterest a little overdone—just a bit too ingenuous to be real.
Only once did she look directly at Lucien, and for a moment her eyes seemed to flash with a challenge. But most often, he noted, she looked at Gavin.
“Miss Fletcher might show us your gardens,