She stared at him, her top teeth clipped on her bottom lip and her eyes gleaming.
Determined not to show a chink in his armor, he exaggerated the sternness of his expression and rearranged his neckcloth. “My sister will arrive sometime this afternoon.” He checked his appearance in the cheval mirror as he buttoned his jacket.
She began eating her third piece of toast. “Is she older than you?”
“Four years younger. Mary is twenty-three.”
“Is she pretty?”
“She’s tall and dark. Personally, I admire shapely blondes.”
The slender-framed woman nodded and, assuming he had put her back into her place, he turned and strode out of the room, meaning to catch up with his paperwork. In a matter of hours, his sister would see his choice of bride as the final irony, being the antithesis of Lavender.
“Mrs. Brighton,” he called as he paced down the hall. “Come and see me in the library.” He would send the housekeeper off to Seymour’s to get a suitable dressing set for Starling Smith.
That would stop the wretch using his brush.
Chapter 3
“The Elliots’s carriage has just arrived.” Ellen’s pretty face edged around the doorway. “Let me take those plates.”
Starling stood as the maid came into the morning room and began to pack up the dishes from the luncheon Starling had been served.
She had enjoyed the idleness of the past few hours. After being escorted by Mrs. Brighton downstairs to the roomy kitchen at the back of the house, Starling had thanked the cook, Mrs. Trelevan, for her meals. She had then been introduced to the kitchen maid, Ellen’s sister, Freda, who was slightly younger and with darker hair. Next, Mrs. Brighton had taken her to meet the boot boy, Will, who’d bowed from the waist. She’d also met the women who managed the various daily cleaning jobs and the good-looking young gardener, Derry, who lived in a room off the stables.
Left to her own devices and ignorant of the role of a wife in this efficient household, she’d let herself be directed to the morning room, and there she’d stayed. With idling to do, she had stared out of the window at the pretty garden, counted varieties of birds, plumped a few cushions on the comfortable sofa, and pondered exploring the house. Just as she had decided to wander, Ellen had delivered the cook’s list of the week’s meals, which had occupied her until now. She couldn’t wait to taste salmon poached in wine. Mousse confused her. She thought it might be a game meat.
“Do you know what mousse is, Ellen?” Starling smoothed the brown-striped skirts of her gown.
“Just a custard. I think it’s French.”
“French.” Musing on the vagaries of the rich, Starling turned to check her appearance in the mirror above the marbled fireplace. Wearing the corset Mr. Seymour had bought for her gave her a shape, at least, but the mustard-yellow bodice of the gown reflected on her skin. Mr. Seymour had hired her and not someone striking for good reason, but perhaps she could have looked pretty in a clearer color. She couldn’t tell. She only knew that while she wore warm muddy tones, no guest of his would remember her name.
“You’ll want to be with Mr. Seymour in the drawing room to greet his sister,” Ellen said. Behind the maid, through the window, the leaves on the fruit trees shifted restlessly. Clouds had begun to gather.
Starling patted her hair to make sure none escaped her neat scraping back. She drew a deep breath. “To the drawing room.”
The time had come to smile and earn her wages.
* * * *
Alasdair turned. Against the fashionable background of the gilded wallpaper, Starling Smith looked like a waning moth. He moved from the window of the drawing room where, over the high wall, he could see the top of the traveling carriage outside.
Her head tilted slightly, Starling stopped to examine a large gilt-framed painting of a hunting scene, looking for all the world as if art interested her. He jammed his hands in his pockets. “So, you finally decided to join me?”
Her lips opened, but her words were stopped by the sound of a female voice in the hallway, directing the placement of her trunks.
“Remember, don’t speak unless you are addressed,” he said in a low voice. “I’ll do the talking.”
On his last word, Mary, dressed in red and white, appeared in the doorway. She looked as elegant as usual. With a laugh of happiness, she dashed across the room and flung herself at him. “We’ve had such a trip! You wouldn’t believe the condition of the roads. So many potholes. Seven days, it took. Seven days! Could you believe that?”
“Yes, Mary. It always takes you seven days. Now, how is my mother?”
“Happily spoiling your two-year-old nephew, who has been left with her and, of course, his dear nanny. Mama’s in her element...” Her voice faded as she noticed Starling behind the armchairs. She shot a questioning smile at him.
He held out his hand to Starling and slid his arm around her waist when she moved to his side, easing her closer. She stiffened, and he loosened his grip. He gave her a loving-husband smile. “My wife, Starling,” he said, assuming he looked suitably fatuous. “Starling, this is my sister, Mary Elliot.”
“Your wife?” Mary said, wide-eyed. “Oh, dear! I don’t mean ‘oh, dear.’ I mean, oh, how do you do, my dear? So you’re my brother’s wife. How delightful.” Her expression somewhat fixed, she reached out and shook Starling’s hand.
Starling smiled brightly but quickly took that hand behind her back with the other.
“Starling. What an unusual name.”
“A pretty name,” said her husband, Paul Elliot, the handsome, good-natured gentleman who had married Alasdair’s loyal, if not misguided sister. The only son of a wealthy landowner, Paul had always been a fashion plate. His shirt was a dazzling white and his waistcoat a red patterned silk. A beautifully curved blonde dressed in a pale lilac gown clung to his arm. Alasdair stared at Lavender...lovely Lavender.
Paul shook Alasdair’s flaccid hand, took up a position beside Mary, and bid Starling a good afternoon.
Lavender gave a throaty laugh. She reached out and placed her gloved fingers in Alasdair’s. “Dare. How wonderful to see you again,” she said in a low voice. “How long has it been? Three years?”
“Seven,” Alasdair managed to say.
“Seven,” Mary emphasized in a precise tone to Starling. “I expect Alasdair told you we would be bringing a mystery guest. He and Lavender have known each other since, oh, years and years. And, because her mourning period is over, she thought she should look up her old friends. And since we were coming here for a visit...”
“Mourning?” said Alasdair, his brain still not quite functioning. He discovered he was clutching at Lavender’s hand.
Lavender lowered her fanlike lashes. “Indeed. Mary tells me your business is very successful—”
“You’re a widow?”
“Richard died two years ago.” Her gaze met his and her lips softened.
“Lavender, before you catch up on too much history, I would like to introduce you to Starling, Alasdair’s wife.” Mary’s voice sounded a little high. “Mrs. Seymour, Mrs. Lavender Frost. And, Starling, this is my dear husband, Paul.” She tilted her head towards her poker-faced husband.
“Mrs. Frost. Mr. Elliot,” Starling said, her pasted smile extending from ear to ear.
“Paul. Call me Paul. We’re related now, Starling.”
“Your