Invitation
In Thicketford Manor’smorning room, Emma dabbed her lips with a napkin after finishing a breakfast of buttered toast and gooseberry preserves. “You know,” she said to her husband, hoping to distract him from the morning newspaper. “You’ve been the Earl of Farnworth for well over a year, but we’ve never hosted any kind of celebration here.”
Gabe put asideThe Times. “What about our wedding breakfast?”
“True, but the guests were mostly close friends and relatives. I was thinking more along the lines of Baron Whiteside’s musicale. We could invite the cream of Lancashire society.”
Gabe rolled his eyes. “Don’t remind me of that ordeal. Besides, then we’d be obliged to ask Anthea and her mother to perform and I have no wish to endure that again.”
So far, the conversation was going in the direction Emma had hoped. She, Gabe and Susan had laughed themselves silly after finally escaping Withins Hall following Anthea’s performance, but sitting through it without laughing had been torture. She certainly didn’t want to organize a musicale. “Perhaps a ball instead?” she asked innocently.
“A ball,” Patsy exclaimed, her wide eyes bright. “Like in London.”
Emma was surprised she’d managed to distract her always-hungry daughter from her breakfast, but Patsy’s enthusiasm might prove useful.
Narrowing his eyes, Gabe folded his newspaper. “What are you up to? I’ll wager your late husband never hosted a ball at Thicketford Manor. Nor his parents before him.”
“Daddy didn’t dance,” Patsy said wistfully.
It was a source of regret for Emma that her daughter had only vaguely sad memories of her late father. “You’re right about Matthew, but his mother loved giving balls here in her younger days. In fact, the occasions were famous throughout the county for their extravagance and gaiety.”
“Hard to imagine,” he replied, “and I’m not sure I like the sound of extravagance with the economy in its present state.”
“Nor I,” she agreed truthfully. “We could set our own tone. Elegant simplicity. We have a beautiful ballroom upstairs that hasn’t been used in years. I think it’s our duty to invite the local gentry. They’d appreciate an opportunity to get to know you better. It can only help garner support for whatever you hope to achieve in the Lords. And we can let everyone know about Orion and the proposed breeding program.”
Gabe rubbed his chin. “Your last point is a good one,” he conceded. “When do you propose we hold this ball?”
“In a fortnight, perhaps?”
“That’s not long to make preparations.”
“It won’t take much to get the ballroom ready. Musicians should be relatively easy to find. The invitations will take some time, but Baron Whiteside will be of help in that regard.”
“Who else is going to assist you? With Susan and my mother away at Clifton Heights…”
Emma waved a dismissive hand. “Don’t worry. I’ll send a letter, inviting Pendlebury. That should bring them home.”
“I miss Aunty Susan and Grandmama Rebecca,” Patsy lamented. “Why have they stayed at Clifton Heights so long?”
“Eat your oatmeal,” Emma chided.
Gabe rolled his eyes. “I was right. You are up to something. But, seriously…Susan and Pendlebury?”
Patsy snorted. “They can’t stand each other.”
Not wishing to get into a discussion that might result in her fragile intuition faltering, Emma stood. “I’ll get the missive in today’s post.”
Feeling a little guilty she hadn’t told her husband the complete truth, she sought out James Footman and handed him a sealed note she’d penned the previous evening. “Find Conrad and tell him to drive you to Clifton Heights. I’d like my letter delivered to Lady Susan this afternoon.”
*
The morning afterthe fiasco in his bedroom, Griff wasn’t surprised when Mrs. Waterman informed him Susan had asked for a breakfast tray to be sent to her room. “I’m a little out of sorts myself,” he told her—the understatement of the decade!
Every mouthful of his mixed grill tasted like paper. In an effort to make sense of his shameful behavior the previous night, he replayed his actions in his mind.
What had he been thinking, kissing a woman he wasn’t even attracted to? That blatant lie worsened the pressure on his temples. Susan boasted few of the attributes he usually looked for in a bedmate and she had personality traits he usually avoided like the plague—but he craved her. He’d nigh on exploded in his breeches when her nipple pebbled in response to his touch. Griff Halliwell, the notorious rake, brought to his knees by a bluestocking. It was probably her first kiss, but the moaning, the tongue mating, the way she’d melted into him…he couldn’t recall ever being so inflamed by a woman.
Then, clearly unhinged by the sexual turmoil roiling in his loins, he’d insulted her by making light of the whole thing. Better that, he supposed, than dragging her into his bed and plunging his greedy shaft into her heat.