Which was what Trent had intended. He wasn’t ready to answer his daughter’s questions about Marissa. Books were a perfect distraction.
Jordana was far from stupid. He thought she’d probably ascertained how he felt about Marissa. If she hadn’t, the whispers that had followed him about Thrumbadge’s would have informed her.
The moment he had stepped inside the booksellers a low hum had started up, though Thrumbadge’s was far from crowded. Trent ignored the curious looks sent in his direction. The conversations that ended as soon as he turned a corner. He imagined Lady Stanton was even now sitting in her drawing room, besieged by callers who all wanted to express their horror at yesterday’s events with a pitying glance at Lady Christina.
Until now, Trent had forgotten how much he detested the way society gossiped.
Marissa hadn’t been exaggerating about the scandal. He’d kept the papers from her as he drizzled honey over her toast, but she’d probably seen them by now.
The rescue of a certain older lady by a much younger gentleman set London on its collective ear yesterday. One wonders if our thrice-widowed Lady C.F. is doing more than performing chaperone duties for Lord H. Our sympathies to Lady C. S.
Yesterday, when he’d seen the packages topple from the carriage and she had fallen to the ground, Trent had thought of nothing but getting to Marissa. He’d shocked Lady Stanton speechless and blatantly ignored Lady Christina, shaking her fingers from his arm. His temper had flared out of control, stoked by his worry over her well-being, when another man had also rushed to her side.
I suppose no one thinks her merely Jordana’s chaperone any longer.
Truthfully, Trent had been committed to Marissa since their night together at Brushbriar, she just hadn’t realized it. He knew she still assumed their understanding to be little more than an affair, one which may well last years but would eventually end. She was still holding onto the absurd notion that he needed an heir, assuming Trent would one day toss her aside in favor of a younger woman. One whom he wouldn’t love, all to procure an heir he didn’t need.
At least she’s made peace with our age difference.
Trent pressed a finger to his lips and looked out the window. Not exactly. Her absolute horror at the exact amount of years between them had been hard to mistake. She was so dismayed over those nine years, Marissa hadn’t even asked how he knew her age.
But Lady Waterstone had been very forthcoming.
Christ, I hope the papers don’t set her off.
She had agreed to an understanding with Trent.
He intended she agree to a great deal more.
“Papa?” Jordana said as the carriage rolled to a stop in front of his house. “You have a visitor.”
Trent recognized the black carriage with matched bays. He didn’t need to see the crest on the door. What does Pendleton want? He’s already taken every penny I have.
“It would appear so.”
If Pendleton thought to guilt Trent into giving him another cent, his distant relation would be sorely disappointed. He didn’t want to see the man until Pendleton walked down the aisle with Miss Higgins. It would be worth attending the wedding to ensure he did so.
As he and Jordana left the carriage and climbed the steps, his butler flung open the door in greeting.
“I see we have a guest,” Trent said, handing over his hat and gloves.
“Yes, my lord. I’ve placed Lady Pendleton in the drawing room and brought her tea.” He took Trent’s coat. “She’s been here the better part of an hour.”
Jordana was already skipping up the stairs to her room unconcerned with who was visiting when she had a stack of new books to pore over.
Lydia was here? Why in God’s name would she visit me?
“Very good.” Trent made his way to the drawing room, dreading having to make small talk with his guest. This couldn’t be a social call. He opened the door and tried to form his lips into some semblance of a polite greeting.
Lydia had positioned herself in the middle of the sofa so she would be the first thing Trent saw as he opened the door. A pot of tea, steam still curling from the lid, sat before her on a low table, along with an assortment of biscuits which he knew Lydia wouldn’t deign to touch.
Her upper lip curled slightly, pleased at the discomfort her visit caused him.
“Lady Pendleton.” He bowed to her. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?” he stated bluntly.
“Lydia, please.” Her dark eyes were smug. “We’re family, after all.”
Trent flinched. He didn’t care for the reminder of their relationship. Going directly to the sidebar for a glass of whisky, he caught a whiff of brandy as he passed Lydia. He poured out three fingers of whisky and took a sip before turning.
“It’s a trifle early for spirits, don’t you think, Trent?”
Nothing good could come of her visit, as evidenced by her use of his given name.
“Is it? The hour doesn’t seem to have stopped you, Lydia.” He nodded at the cup of tea sitting before her. Lydia had always enjoyed her brandy. Probably more so now with Pendleton’s financial situation so precarious.
Yes, but I’ve taken care of that, haven’t I?
Lydia’s upper lip rippled into her patent sneer. He recognized it as the same one she used to turn on his wife, Anne, when they’d crossed paths in Castleton. There was a slight tremble in her gloved hand poised over the handle of the teacup she held. Lines of dissipation colored her once smooth cheeks.
Trent wished with all his heart he’d never accepted a farthing from Lydia’s husband.
“Is there something I can help you with, Lydia?” The longer she stayed in his house, the more his irritation grew. “I’m sure you’re not here merely to avail yourself of tea and pleasant conversation. I’d appreciate it if you’d get to the point.”
“Your manners have undergone a transformation, Trent.
