Three Weeks With Lady X by Eloisa James

straightened. “Which estate?”
    “Starberry Court.”
    Lady Rainsford sank back onto the sofa again, brow creased in a way that would give her palpitations if she caught sight of it in the mirror. “That’s the Earl of Jupp’s estate—before the line died out, of course. Dautry probably bought it for a song.”
    “Twenty thousand pounds,” Lala said, telling the first huge lie of her life. She had made up the biggest sum she could imagine.
    “Well, I suppose his money balances his blood,” her mother said, showing no reaction to the sum, though Lala knew she had to be impressed. “Sit down, if you please. You drive me to distraction the way you’re looming about. You must remember, dear, that your bottom is better hidden than revealed in the open air.”
    “I understand you dislike talk of money, Mama, but I also know that Father is feeling very strained by lack of funds and would prefer not to pay for another season.”
    “Oh, your father,” Lady Rainsford said, allowing her head to droop like an unwatered tulip. “When has the man not fussed about this or that? My ill health is due to his constant laments.”
    “Mr. Dautry won’t care that I have no dowry,” Lala said bluntly. “And he’s likely to give Father a very large settlement if we marry.”
    “Believe me, Lord Rainsford could talk the hind leg off a donkey on that subject,” her mother cried. “Neither of you seems to understand what a disgrace it would be to marry my daughter to a by-blow.”
    “Better married to Mr. Dautry than never married at all.” Lala had been beset by suitors all season, but her father had rejected every one. She knew why: he had decided that her beauty was worth a huge settlement. In short, no one had bid high enough to pay off his debts.
    “If only you’d eat less, your season might have had an entirely different outcome!” her mother said, her voice becoming a little shrill. “Why, you were seated beside Lord Brody, the Duke of Pindar’s heir, throughout six courses. You could be a duchess!”
    To Lala’s mind, her failure with Lord Brody had nothing to do with her figure. It was because she was stupid. She couldn’t follow conversations that pinged like tennis balls, clever expressions flying back and forth. His Grace had looked bored by the end of the first course.
    “Father cannot afford another season,” she said, going back to the only point that might influence her mother. “Thus, if I don’t marry Mr. Dautry, I might never marry at all.”
    “There’s no need to play the martyr,” her mother said, clutching her handkerchief in a manner that threatened to shred it. “It’s as if you actually want me to have another nervous spasm. I’m sure we all wish you would marry, even if it is to—”
    The butler opened the door and announced, “Mr. Dautry.”
    Lala knew perfectly well that her mother’s voice was audible in the entry, even through the door. Whenever she heard that strident tone in the drawing room, she tiptoed up the stairs.
    But Mr. Dautry strolled into the room as casually as a lion into its den, Lala thought, with a sudden—and uncharacteristic—turn to metaphor. Except that lions’ eyes were tawny and hungry, and Mr. Dautry’s eyes were the color of the sky on a windy, rainy day: cold, without an ounce of sentiment. His rumpled black hair was a bit longer than the fashion, but then, as far as she knew, he had nothing to do with the ton, so why should he follow fashion? And yet she noted with relief that his coat and breeches had been crafted by a master. Her mother would never forgive a second-rate tailor.
    “It is such a pleasure to see you again, Mr. Dautry,” Lala said, risking the revelation of her bottom by rising from her chair. “Mother, may I present Mr. Dautry to you?”
    As Dautry bowed, Lala realized that her mother was responding to the masculinity that clung to him like a second skin. Her handkerchief was no longer clenched, but began gently waving about,