“Miss Trim, I’d love you to visit me in London,” Lady Harmsworth said warmly from her place on the sofa, after they found they agreed on the faults of the latest Scott novel, The Fair Maid of Perth. The lovely blonde stuck a few desultory stitches into the embroidery on her lap. “We could
do the rounds of the booksellers.”
Nell, whose troubles had briefly receded, blushed. She sat near the fire, a place of honor that the duchess had insisted she take. “Lady Harmsworth, you’re too generous, but I’m returning to my stepfather’s house.”
“You’re from Kent, my husband says. Kent to London isn’t far.”
“A lowly sergeant major’s daughter belongs in a different world, my lady,” Nell said.
She’d grown up unthinkingly accepting the gulf dividing the classes. Since falling in love with Leath, it struck her that a rigidly stratified society brought untold trouble. If Leath wasn’t a great lord, would his lechery meet with such success? A poor man had neither time nor money to tour the country debauching local virgins. A poor man couldn’t dazzle a clutch of country bumpkins with his London glamor. And a rich man had more chance of weaseling out of the consequences of bad behavior.
Perhaps she became a quiet revolutionary.
Thoughtfully Lady Harmsworth surveyed her. “You imagine that I’m a bloodless aristocrat like Pen and Sidonie?”
Lady Hillbrook sent her a fondly impatient glance from the facing sofa. “Doing it too brown, Genevieve. My father wasn’t much further up the social scale than yours.”
The duchess laughed from beside Lady Hillbrook and Nell experienced a pang of unworthy envy. This lovely woman lived with a man she adored in an exquisite house, and the child they expected would be loved and secure. Any child Nell had with Leath—and the possibility of pregnancy remained, despite her rage—would be branded a bastard. His lordship’s cold-blooded contract ensured that their offspring wouldn’t be thrown penniless upon the world, but she flinched from tarring her children with illegitimacy.
“I’ll hold up the flag for the useless aristocracy.” The duchess raised her hand. “I’m not ashamed of where I’ve come from.”
Nell’s resentment melted away. It did her no good, after all. And she liked the duchess. She liked all these women. If the world was a different place, she could even imagine friendships forming. The ladies were clever and funny and they’d all been far too generous to a woman who descended upon them bringing the threat of chaos. The battle to destroy Leath would be neither clean nor quick. The marquess would fight to his last breath. Even when she’d thought him a good man, she’d recognized his tenacity.
“I’m a mere vicar’s daughter, Miss Trim,” Lady Harmsworth said. “I’m used to getting my hands dirty.”
The duchess snorted in a very un-duchesslike fashion. “Hold to that story, Genevieve, and we’ll all imagine you grubbing on your bony knees in the dry, stony soil to dig up a shriveled turnip for each night’s supper.”
“Wearing filthy rags and clogs,” Lady Hillbrook added.
The duchess shivered theatrically. “While the cold, cold wind whips around you.”
Nell couldn’t help laughing. The idea of elegant Lady Harmsworth anywhere but in a room such as this was so incongruous. But then, she’d learned to fit in with extravagant surroundings too, hadn’t she?
“You sound as if you’re having a fine time.” Sedgemoor stood in the doorway, surveying them with an indulgent eye. “Perhaps we should have abandoned our port earlier. Richard bored us with some damned dull nonsense about the latest colors in waistcoats. Nearly went to sleep over my glass, it was so tedious.”
“Trying to help you cut a dash, old man.” Sir Richard sauntered past his friend and took his place on the sofa beside his wife. “Seems a pity for the incumbent of one of the nation’s greatest titles to dress like a damned Quaker.”
“Better a Quaker than a blasted harlequin,” the duke retorted, although it was clear that neither man took this argument seriously.
“Children,” Lord Hillbrook said repressively, prowling across the room to stand behind his wife. He rested his hand on the bare shoulder revealed by her daringly scooped décolletage.
Nell realized that she stared at the Hillbrooks and glanced away with a blush. She wasn’t used to these open displays of affection. She barely conquered another nasty pang of jealousy.
She didn’t want Lord Leath to touch her with casual confidence. She didn’t want to warm to the brush of his fingers against her neck, just as Lady Hillbrook clearly warmed to her husband’s touch. James Fairbrother was the lowest worm who ever lived. If she could, she’d crush him under her heel.
She stared into her cooling tea and told herself that one day she might even believe she meant that.
“Speaking of harlequins,” Sir Richard said, leaning against his wife’s arm with more disconcerting physical intimacy, “are you embroidering a bulldog wearing a rainbow, my love?”
Lady Harmsworth raised her eyebrows with a haughtiness contradicted by the sparkle in her eyes. “You’re such a humorist, darling. Anyone can see that it’s an Arab bazaar at sunset.”
“Mmm,” her husband said, obviously unconvinced. “Looks like a pug losing his lunch to me. But I’ve never claimed much grasp of arty nonsense. That’s all up to Pen and Cam.”
“This cushion is perfect for your library,” Lady Harmsworth said sweetly. “It matches my set of Grecian ruins. You so admired those.”
“Dear Lord save us,” Sir Richard muttered quite audibly.
The duke remained standing. “Miss Trim, may I have a word?”