‘No, no, I am sure a rest will suffice. It is not too bad, and if I am alone for a while and quiet …’

Caroline laid aside the riband, rose from the bed and gave her cousin a hug before departing. Henrietta did lay herself down upon her bed, but she did not close her eyes. The truth was that however exciting it was to be admired and courted, she did want to go back to Papa when it was over, and thus far could not imagine leaving him to become the wife of some young man in a distant shire. Yet if she returned without having accepted an offer, she would be seen as having failed, having wasted her Season, and she would not be offered another.

‘But life was so comfortable,’ she whispered to herself, ‘and I was happy.’

CHAPTER SEVEN

Lord Martley was not scholarly, but he was no fool. What had happened at the exhibition had been totally unexpected, and disturbing also. Whilst his relationship with neither of his parents was particularly close, he generally kept on good terms with them by dint of doing as he was told, and he would not normally have described his mother as the sort of woman who clawed in public at other ladies in society. If anything, she liked to appear bored by them, as if more active emotions would be wasted upon them, and confined her vituperative comments to her nearest and dearest. Yet something almost visceral lay at the bottom of this morning’s exchanges, and it boded ill for his nascent romance. Not considered one for the muslin company, he had discovered that he was actually dwelling, in odd moments, on the thought of what it would be like to have an establishment of his own, a pretty and affectionate wife, and all the benefits that such a person brought. It had not occurred to him that there would be any parental opposition to this, in fact the reverse. He had imagined much hand-shaking, and basking in unaccustomed approval. Without knowing why on earth such a degree of animosity existed between his mama and Lady Elstead, he was working in the dark, but broaching the subject was not something to be undertaken lightly. His best bet might in fact be to ask his father, who might well have little detail, but could surely provide at least some information.

With this worthy aim in view, Lord Martley ascertained that his sire was dining at home, wrote a short note to the friend to whom he was vaguely promised for dinner, and cried off. He then turned up at the family residence, and girded his loins to raise the issue over the port.

‘It’s not a woman, is it?’

‘Good grief, no, or rather, yes, but … it is Lady Elstead.’

‘What!’ exclaimed Lord Pirbright, spilling his port as he refilled his glass. ‘You must be raving.’