Chapter 3

CHAPTER 3

W hitehall strode down the steps to the ground level of his town house, mentally running through the errands he needed to tend to. He was getting a late start on his day thanks to staying too late at the club the night before. He'd been on a winning streak, and he hated to walk away from easy money.

"Good morning, my lord." Samuels, his butler, and his father's before him, stepped out of the hidden door to his office and met Whitehall at the base of the stairs. "The marchioness is in the morning room."

What was his mother doing in town, he wondered. "Thank you. Did anything come in the post that I should be aware of?"

"No, sir."

Unable to face his mother without the brace of his morning coffee, Whitehall went to the dining room. Upon entering, he went straight to the pot on the buffet, which he noticed was warm rather than hot, but he didn't care. He poured a cup and didn't bother with milk, downing it quickly before pouring a second cup. This one he'd nurse, knowing the footman he'd passed on his way into the room would have informed the cook he was ready to break his fast.

His tray arrived promptly, piled with eggs, meat and toast, and a second servant carried in a fresh pot of coffee. About the time he was halfway through his meal, his mother entered.

"There you are, darling boy," the marchioness said as she swept in and took a seat opposite him at the long table.

"Mother, what an unexpected surprise. Shall I have cook prepare something for you?"

She fussed with a stray curl that refused to stay tucked into her cap. "Don't bother. I knew if I didn't come by first thing, I'd never catch you."

"Is something amiss?" He knew there couldn't be anything serious, or she'd have had him roused from bed first thing.

"I received a letter from my sister. Her son is engaged."

"Well, I'll be certain to send him a congratulatory note." His cousin had a long-running affection with a viscount's daughter, so this news was not a surprise. And, definitely not worth a visit from his mother.

"You're three years his senior. You should be married by now."

"Mother, I'm twenty-eight years old, not eighty." They had this conversation several times a year, usually the first week in January, in March on the anniversary of his father's death, and again in April before the Season began in earnest. This morning's episode wasn't expected, but not a surprise, either. "I promise you I shall marry one day, but today is not that day."

She sighed and offered her practiced smile. "Of course I don't expect you to marry today, or even next month, but is there even a lady you are considering?"

He knew plenty of the right sort of woman, but he wasn't considering marriage at this time, so he knew better than to name names. "Mother…"

"I will introduce you to a few I've met who are new to Town."

"It's no use?—"

"You'll come with me on morning calls tomorrow. Be ready by ten."

Whitehall pressed his lips together but held back his sigh. "Very well. I can adjust my calendar tomorrow, but no more. I don't need introductions."

The marchioness' entire demeanor changed as she smiled this time. She rose to leave. "Excellent. We'll take your carriage, it's so much grander than mine."

Raising his cup to his lips, Whitehall nodded in response to her farewell. Not for the first time, he wished he had siblings, someone to distract his mother from planning his life for him. His life would be so much easier if he did.

* * *

The morning sun streamed through the tall windows of Lady Beatrice Devereaux's drawing room, casting a golden hue over the delicate china cups that clinked softly as they were set upon their saucers. The scent of freshly brewed tea mingled with the faint aroma of violets, which adorned the tables in dainty arrangements. Minnie Dixon sat quietly, listening as the topic of conversation turned to the ailing health of Lady Beatrice's mother.

"Indeed, it is a most distressing affair," Lady Beatrice remarked. "My mother has always been the pillar of both grace and vigor. To see her so diminished..." She trailed off, her cool blue gaze momentarily clouded with unspoken emotion.

"Your mother is possessed of a constitution most robust," CeCe interjected, her black hair wound tightly in a bun, her green eyes sparking with an attempt to lighten the mood. "I am quite certain she will be back on her feet before long."

Minnie nodded silently, her lips pressing into a thin line. She offered a weak smile to Lady Killbrough, Lady Beatrice's grandmother, who sat with them.

The announcement of the arrival of Lord Paul, Lord Whitehall and his mother sent a subtle thrill through the small gathering. Whitehall, strode into the room, scanning the assembly with a practiced ease. His athletic build was accentuated by his tailored coat, which spoke volumes of his impeccable taste.

"Lord Whitehall, Lady Whitehall, Lord Paul, what a pleasure to have you join us," Lady Beatrice declared as she rose, her composure as flawless as her blonde coiffure. "May I introduce you to Miss Minerva Dixon and her sister, Miss Cecelia Dixon."

"Indeed, the pleasure is all ours," Lord Whitehall replied, bowing slightly, his voice carrying the harmonious blend of eloquence and assurance.

"How do you do?" Lady Whitehall took a seat in one of the small chairs, while her son stood beside her.

Lord Paul took command of the conversation, clearly comfortable with the attention. "Miss Dixon, Miss Minerva," Lord Paul said, turning his gaze toward the sisters. "It is a rare delight to make your acquaintance."

"Thank you, my lord," Minnie answered. She offered him a small, sincere smile, then stole a glance at Whitehall, who was looking out the window.

The conversation flowed like a gently babbling brook, with Lord Paul contributing tales of travel and adventure, eliciting laughter and gasps from the sisters. CeCe's melodic laugh rang clear as a bell, while Minnie's quiet chuckles were more subdued, yet no less genuine.

"Is it true you saw a tiger on the banks of the Ganges?" CeCe asked.

"I did, Miss Minerva," Lord Paul insisted, his eyes twinkling. "And not merely one, but a tigress with her cubs no less."

"Such beauty seems scarcely believable," Minnie murmured, her mind adrift in the exotic imagery conjured by Lord Paul's words.

"Yet, the world is full of wonders waiting to be discovered," Lord Whitehall added, a note of wistfulness threading through his confident tone.

Minnie held in a sigh as she looked at Whitehall. For the past two Seasons, she'd eyed him from across many a ballroom, wishing she could know him. And now they'd been introduced. Beneath this swell of emotion that knowledge brought, a whisper of reality quieted her heart. Minnie knew all too well the unspoken rules that governed their world—rules that did not favor a young lady with a dowry as modest as hers. Lord Whitehall, with his noble lineage and wealth, was a catch beyond her reach, a dream meant for another kind of maiden.

Her gaze lingered on him nonetheless, taking in the sharp cut of his coat and the way his dark hair framed his fine face. His blue eyes were a stormy sea into which she feared she might willingly drown, if only given the chance.

"Lord Whitehall," Lady Beatrice cooed, each syllable wrapped in honeyed tones. "Your steed was magnificent at Newmarket. How thrilling it must be to command such power and grace." With a flourish of her fan, Lady Beatrice batted her lashes in an unspoken but unmistakable invitation. Her blonde tresses cascaded in perfect ringlets around her porcelain features, each movement calculated to ensnare the Marquess's attention.

"Indeed, Lady Beatrice," Whitehall replied, inclining his head. "It is a rare pleasure to witness such raw vitality harnessed into victory. Much like the conversations within certain esteemed assembly rooms, wouldn't you agree?"

A murmur of laughter rippled through the group, and Minnie couldn't help but envy the deft way in which Lady Beatrice had charmed the two gentlemen. The lady's intent was clear as the crystal decanters resting on the sideboard—she aimed to ignite a spark of interest in the Marquess's heart, or at the very least, to stoke the embers of an on dit or two.

"Quite so," Lady Beatrice purred, leaning forward ever so slightly. "And a man with your...discernment is sure to recognize the value of a spirited challenge."

As the flirtation unfolded, Minnie wondered at the ability to be so bold in front of Lady Whitehall. It was yet another sign she didn't belong in these circles. She took another sip of her tea and let that thought linger.

Lord Whitehall shifted his weight on his feet, then discreetly retrieved the pocket watch from within the folds of his waistcoat and glanced at it before tucking it away.

"I fear we've taken enough of your time," he announced, his voice a skilled blend of regret and urgency. "Duty beckons us to continue our morning calls."

The Dixon sisters and Lady Beatrice set aside their teacups and stood.

Whitehall bowed with the grace of a courtier, a practiced smile touching his lips—a smile that did not quite reach the cool depths of his eyes. "Your company has been most delightful," he added.

Lord Paul also bowed. "Indeed, we are indebted to your hospitality."

The girls murmured farewells and the gentlemen made their way to the door. The drawing room, just moments ago alive with the hum of genteel conversation and the delicate aroma of Darjeeling, settled into a quieter state, the remaining guests exchanging glances that spoke volumes in the silence left behind by the two lords.

Minnie watched through the lace curtains as the two men and Lady Whitehall climbed into a carriage and left. With a glance at her sister, she said, "We should be on our way, too. Give our good wishes to your mother."

They'd planned to call on one other family, but having seen Lord Whitehall, Minnie had no energy left for polite conversation. She convinced CeCe she had the beginnings of a megrim and the sisters went home.