To his disappointment, he wasn’t seated near his hostess—the elderly Marquess of Berkley and Lord Coopley had that honour, as was proper for the two highest-ranking guests. He was surprised that he’d been seated adjacent to his host, a place that would normally have been reserved for a gentleman of higher status. Unless, he realised with a rueful grimace, one took into account his position as a courtesy viscount.
At first, conversation was general, with comments on the food and wine and an exchange of pleasantries and social news among the gentleman. Having nothing of interest to contribute, Giles listened politely, his glance straying to Lady Margaret at the other end of the table.
She was smiling at Lord Coopley—and what a lovely smile it was, he thought, those generous lips upturned and her eyes brightening. He liked what she’d done with her hair tonight, thick coils of auburn fire pinned atop her head, with little tendrils curling down to kiss her brow and earlobes—as he would love to. That luscious mouth, too.
‘…do you not think so, Hadley?’
Startled by the sound of his name, he jerked his head back to find the marquess regarding him, a slight smile on his face. Realising he’d not only been rudely inattentive to the host who’d done him the honour of seating him beside him, he’d also been caught staring at the man’s daughter, he gave himself a sharp mental rebuke, feeling his face heat.
If he were a parent worth the name, Lady Margaret’s father must already be curious about the link between them. The last thing he needed was to give the marquess a distaste of him by exhibiting the sort of ill-bred behaviour his half-brother always accused him of—or worse still, have Witlow suspect the strength of his amorous interest in Lady Margaret.
That subject concerned the two of them alone.
‘I’m sorry, my lord, I didn’t quite hear. Could you repeat the question?’
‘Certainly.’ A little twitch to his lips, as if he didn’t believe Giles’s excuse for an instant, but didn’t mean to call him on it, Witlow complied. This time, Giles listened closely, telling himself sternly for the remainder of the dinner to concentrate on his host.
Once the diners ventured into political matters, the conversation became stimulating enough to hold Giles’s attention, despite the ever-beckoning temptation of Lady Margaret seated at the other end of the table. Giles deferred to Sir James, letting the senior Member shoulder the burden of defending the Reform cause, adding a comment only when called upon. Not that he was afraid of speaking out, but it would be presumptuous for a junior member to put himself forward when Grey’s aide was present, an experienced man better known to this group than he.
Some time later, he heard Lord Coopley call his name. ‘So, Hadley,’ the baronet said in his gravelly voice, ‘your half-brother tells me you carry a torch for the Friends of the People?’
‘In a way,’ Giles replied. ‘Since Lord Grey himself formed the group, all of us who call ourselves Reformers are happy to carry on his ideals. Who could disagree with the notion that talent and virtue should be the chief requirements for a Member of Parliament?’
Apparently able to disagree, Lord Coopley sniffed. ‘Every male eighteen and older to have a vote? Parliaments to be elected annually? One member of Parliament for each twenty thousand citizens? Bah! How could the nation’s business be done, with Parliament forming and breaking up every season, and any Tom, Dick and Harry who could stagger to the polls after drinking a quart of election gin able to cast a vote? In private, no less, so one would never know where he stood! I suppose you sympathise with the Spencean Philanthropists, too, who would confiscate all our land and parcel it out, a few acres to every man, woman and child in the land?’
‘Did my half-brother tell you that, as well?’ Giles asked, irritated. Trust George to make him sound like the most rabid radical imaginable.
‘He did. You’re not going to call the Earl of Telbridge’s son a liar, are you?’
Much as he would like to, he knew it wouldn’t be prudent. ‘Certainly not. Though it’s true we agree on very little,’ he replied, trying to walk a cautious line between dismissing the charge as nonsense and agreeing he supported a position he didn’t.
Coopley uttered a bark of a laugh. ‘Distributing land to everyone! I’d like to see what a tailor or a baker or a bricklayer would do with ten acres of prime farmland!’
‘Or a Parliamentarian or lawyer?’ Giles replied with a smile. ‘I think we are all better off staying within our spheres of expertise. I’m sure Mr Stephenson would not like to have me conducting experiments on steam power, lest I blow him sky-high.’
As he’d hoped, the gentlemen laughed, easing the tension.
‘Lord Coopley, could I beg your assistance?’ Lady Margaret interposed, touching that gentleman’s arm. ‘Was it the Warrington Exetors who returned a Tory candidate for the last Parliament, or the Covington Exetors? Your memory for names is keen as a huntsman’s knife, and you know everyone who is anybody.’
‘Covington, my dear, Covington,’ Coopley said, patting her hand. ‘The family have been Tories since Peel’s administration.’ Either forgetting Giles or losing interest in baiting him, the older man launched into a detailed description of each administration in which an Exetor had served.
Giles risked catching Lady Margaret’s eye to give her a quick nod of thanks, to which she replied with a slight smile and a lift of her brows before turning back to her dinner partner.
A short time later, the footmen cleared the table, and Lady Margaret stood up. ‘Gentlemen, I’ll leave you to begin your more…lively debates. Thank you all for coming, and I’ll bid you goodnight. Papa, I’ll be reading in the library; come see me later, if the vigorous discourse you’re sure to enjoy after my departure doesn’t totally exhaust you.’
Giles watched her walk out with appreciative eyes. Initially disappointed that she did not even glance in his direction before she left the room, he brightened when he recalled her parting comment about repairing to the library.
Had that been aimed solely at her father…or could he flatter himself that she’d meant it partly for him, too?
At the idea of having her to himself for a few moments, excitement flared, and he immediately began scheming how he might politely get away without exciting comment.
Sir James was watching her, too. ‘She certainly rescued you deftly!’ the baronet murmured to Giles after she disappeared from view. ‘What a consummate hostess! I wish I had the like!’
‘Lady Graham is a very gracious hostess,’ Giles replied.
‘My Fanny does her best, but she doesn’t truly enjoy it,’ Sir James replied. ‘You need only look at Lady Margaret to see she thrives on discussion and debate. An excellent campaigner, too, which my Fanny most decidedly is not! The travelling, the dust, the crowds all exhaust her. There was talk a while back that Sir Francis Mowbrey might lure Lady Margaret away from her father to work her magic on his behalf, but in the end, it came to nothing.’
‘Sir Francis Mowbrey, the Tory MP from Suffolk?’ Giles asked, hoping he sounded like a politely interested guest—rather than like a man completely obsessed by the lady.
‘Yes, he wooed her some years ago, not long after she came out of mourning. Sir Francis was making a name for himself in Tory circles and had all the right qualifications: old landed family, educated at Eton and Cambridge, related to many of the peers in the Lords, not to mention the ladies found him charming. They were engaged, but just before they were to wed, Lady Margaret cried off. Sir Francis was quite public about his displeasure over the break; understandable, I suppose—it was a better match for him than for the