Diane Gaston - A Lady of Notoriety

He’d paused and she feared he could sense she was staring at him. She averted her gaze, now wishing he would ask her about her retreat in Switzerland, even if she did not know how to tell him her retreat was in a Catholic convent.

He tore off another piece of bread. ‘My stay in Brussels was anything but a retreat.’

She breathed a sigh of relief. He was like most men. Wishing to talk about himself.

‘Is that so?’ she responded politely.

‘My time was spent disentangling my father’s affairs,’ he went on. ‘He was living there, you see. And he died there several months ago.’

‘I am so sorry.’ She felt genuinely sympathetic. She’d not known of the earl’s death.

She’d heard the Earl of Westleigh had been living on the Continent. Some scandal associated with the Masquerade Club, she recalled, but she could not remember the details. In her nights spent in attendance at the club, she’d not paid much attention to anything but her own interests.

‘Do not be sorry,’ he countered. ‘He was the very worst of fathers. The worst of men. Perhaps you’ve heard of him? The infamous Earl of Westleigh?’ He exaggerated his father’s name.

‘I have heard of him.’ He’d been an acquaintance of her late husband’s and only a few years older. ‘But only his name, really.’ It was true. Her husband had not gossiped with her about the people he knew.

‘My brother Ned, the new earl, sent me to deal with whatever trouble our father caused. I am glad this was my last trip.’

She did not know what to say to this, so she offered more food. ‘Would you like more stew?’

‘I would indeed.’ He smiled.

He had a nice smile, she thought.

He was also the first person she’d ever met who admitted to not grieving the loss of a family member. Perhaps she wasn’t so strange after all, that the deaths of her parents had left her feeling so little emotion. She’d hardly known them. She had regretted that.

‘Did you not like Brussels, then?’ she asked, just to make conversation.

‘It is a beautiful city.’ He averted his head. ‘But too full of memories for me. When I walk through its streets, all I can think of is Waterloo.’

‘You were in the great battle?’ All she knew of the battle was what she read in the newspapers that reached Faville.

‘Yes.’ His voice turned wooden.

She took a big gulp of wine. ‘War and battle are not good topics for dinner conversation, are they?’

‘Not at all.’ He smiled again. ‘Tell me about Switzerland. I’ve seen the Alps from France, but not the other side. Are they as majestically beautiful?’

The Abbey was in a valley. The craggy stone mountaintops of the Alps were not greatly visible there.

‘Oh, yes,’ she agreed brightly. ‘Quite beautiful. It was a lovely place.’

‘I should like to travel there.’ He laughed. ‘I should like to travel anywhere and everywhere. That is what I will do after I report back to the family in London. Travel.’

But he might be blind. What would happen to his dreams of travel then?

‘There are many places to see,’ she responded conversationally.

They continued though dinner, talking of various places on the Continent where they had travelled. Daphne had seen only the countries through which she travelled to Switzerland and a little of Italy when her husband had taken her there.

The meal was companionable, more pleasant than any meal Daphne could remember in a long time. She enjoyed it far more than she ought, especially considering her resolve to stay away from him.

* * *

After dinner, they retired to the drawing room.

‘I do not have brandy to offer, I am afraid.’ She’d send Carter into the village to procure some the next day, however. ‘Would you care for tea?’

‘Tea will do.’

He’d been so churlish that morning, but now was agreeable and diverting. She could almost forget that she was Lady Faville and he was a man who would certainly despise her, if he knew.

As they finished their tea, she could see his energy was flagging.

‘I believe I shall retire for the night,’ she said, saving him the need to admit he was tired.

He smiled. ‘Will you escort me upstairs? I am uncertain I will be able to find my room again.’

‘It will be my pleasure,’ she said.

As they climbed the stairs, he asked, ‘What time is breakfast served?’

Goodness. She did not care. ‘Whenever you wish.’

‘Name a time.’

She ought to check with Mrs Pitts before making a decision. The woman had toiled very hard this day. The new maids had caused her more work and the prospect of hiring more workers had created more anxiety in the poor woman.

What thoughts were these? When had she ever considered the feelings of servants?

‘I will send Carter in the morning to help you dress. We will have breakfast ready soon after.’

She left him at his doorway. ‘Goodnight, Mr Westleigh. Carter will be up to tend to your needs soon.’

His hand slid down her arm to clasp hers. ‘Thank you for a very enjoyable evening.’

Her heart fluttered with pleasure. Appreciation from a gentleman had always gratified her, but did not usually excite such emotion. Not from her husband, certainly. From only one man, the man who’d married Westleigh’s sister.

It must merely be the novelty, she thought. She’d been secluded from men for a long time when at the convent. Certainly Hugh Westleigh was the last man on earth who should excite her sensibilities.

She crossed the hallway to the bedchamber opposite Westleigh’s. It was smaller than the one she’d given Westleigh, but there was another, even smaller room next to it that was perfect for Monette.

Besides, she’d become used to sleeping in a room in the Abbey even smaller than a maid’s room. A cot. A side table. A chest for her clothing. It had been all she needed.

Inside the room, Monette was laying out her nightdress.

She looked up at Daphne, her brows raised. ‘Was that Mr Westleigh I heard with you? Carter said he came down on his own for dinner.’

‘Yes. I walked with him upstairs.’

‘Is he to be up and about, then?’ Monette asked.

‘Yes. He has no wish to spend time in his room.’ Unfortunately.

‘That makes you unhappy,’ Monette guessed.

Monette was not in Daphne’s confidence. In fact, Daphne had told the younger woman very little about her life. She was the widow of a viscount, that was it. Daphne had not told anyone, even the abbess, any more than that. While in the convent, she wore her unhappiness as plainly as the sisters wore their habits, but she’d never explained.

She needed to give some answer, though. ‘It makes matters more complicated. No matter what he thinks, he cannot get about on his own.’

Monette folded down the coverlet and bed linens. ‘It is good, then, that you have hired more help. There are more of us to tend to him.’

Yes, but Westleigh was her guest, and a hostess did not leave a guest to be entertained by the servants.

‘That is so,’ she said, there being no reason why Monette should know precisely how difficult it would be for her to spend time with Westleigh.

Spending time with him was like a constant reminder of her lie and of what she was most ashamed.

And now she was also too much aware of him as a man.

Chapter Five

As promised, Carter appeared the next morning in time to ready Hugh for breakfast, and, rather than eating alone, Hugh had company. Mrs Asher breakfasted with him, making polite conversation as if seated with a man who could see. The food was easy for him to eat. He suspected she’d made certain of that.

Her chair scraped against the floor. ‘If you will excuse me, Mr Westleigh, I must meet with the housekeeper.’