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Authors: Love Is in the Heir
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the floor as he passed. “Why are you hopping about, young man?”
“’Tis nothing, Lady Letitia. Struck it on a rail while trying to catch a bolting horse.”
“How noble of you, Mr. St. Albans. Not many gentlemen would be so gallant as to assist a rider in need.”
He smiled in that cocky way of his. “Well, as I said, ’twas nothing really.” When Mr. St. Albans reached Hannah, he confidently took her hand in his, then clapped his other hand atop it, assuring she could not pull away no matter how desperately she tried.
Which she did, of course, with all the strength she could muster without arousing the Feathertons’ notice.
Still, Hannah’s eyes shot to the ladies, and she pleaded with her gaze for assistance. As at the ball, however, they only gazed appreciatively at their handsome houseguest.
Mr. St. Albans looked down into Hannah’s eyes and sighed softly. “Please do forgive me, my dear Miss Chillton,” he begged so sincerely that Hannah herself almost believed him.
Almost
.
Hannah wrenched her gaze from his and focused her gaze out the window on the sweep of the rain-drenched crescent. “Leaving me on the dance floor was beyond rude . . . sirrah.” Her tone was much harsher than she meant it to be, but in truth he deserved nothing less for his behavior.
“Nevertheless, I do wish you would forgive me. Please, Miss Chillton.” Mr. St. Albans stroked the top of her hand irritatingly, as if he thought the soothing motion might calm her. “For I assure you, dear lady, there is a good explanation for what appeared to be my most ungentlemanly behavior.”
Hannah twisted her captive hand and pulled it from his grip. “And just what, I ask, might that be, Mr. St. Albans?” This she should like to hear.
And so, evidently, did the Featherton sisters, for the room fell silent, and all eyes seized upon the gentleman.
Mr. St. Albans curled his fingers toward his palm and brought his fist to his mouth just as he cleared his throat. Gaming for time, Hannah suspected.
Then he glanced at each woman in turn, as if hoping that at least one of them would release him from his obligation of explanation.
But none of the ladies did so.
“Very well.” He cleared his throat again. A flush of color filled the tips of Mr. St. Albans’s ears as he hesitantly supplied his excuse for racing from the dance floor.
“I . . . I fear it might have been . . . the ham.”
Chapter Six
Queen Square
W hat in blazes? You send not a word for two full days, and now you tell me that
this
is the explanation you gave Miss Chillton and the Featherton ladies?”
Griffin St. Albans leaped up from his chair, nearly toppling the diminutive tea table Mrs. Hopshire had just set with a selection of cold meats, berries, and cheese. “Please, Garnet, tell me that you truly did not blame my sudden departure on my . . . bowels.”
“I’m afraid so, Griff. The moment I mentioned that the ham you devoured in the Tea Room—”
“But I had no ham.”
“No, but
I
did.” Garnet shook his finger at Griffin. “Do you wish a recounting of what I said on your behalf or not, brother?”
Griffin waved his hand resignedly, and Garnet continued, “Once I explained that the ham had caused a dreadful disturbance in your belly, the ladies were not about to speak another word of the entire incident.”
“And how were you so sure of the direction of their reaction?”
“Well, Griff, they are ladies after all, and as such can be counted upon to respond . . . well, gently.” Garnet leaned over the table and snatched up a thin slice of pork and popped it into his mouth, seeming to delight in the irony. “So you see, it was the best of all possible explanations.”
Griffin set his elbow on his knee and rested his forehead in his hand. “So help me to understand. Miss Chillton now believes that I was playing the rogue on the dance floor until I was compelled to find a chamber pot?”
He looked at Garnet, who was supping on yet another
“’Tis nothing, Lady Letitia. Struck it on a rail while trying to catch a bolting horse.”
“How noble of you, Mr. St. Albans. Not many gentlemen would be so gallant as to assist a rider in need.”
He smiled in that cocky way of his. “Well, as I said, ’twas nothing really.” When Mr. St. Albans reached Hannah, he confidently took her hand in his, then clapped his other hand atop it, assuring she could not pull away no matter how desperately she tried.
Which she did, of course, with all the strength she could muster without arousing the Feathertons’ notice.
Still, Hannah’s eyes shot to the ladies, and she pleaded with her gaze for assistance. As at the ball, however, they only gazed appreciatively at their handsome houseguest.
Mr. St. Albans looked down into Hannah’s eyes and sighed softly. “Please do forgive me, my dear Miss Chillton,” he begged so sincerely that Hannah herself almost believed him.
Almost
.
Hannah wrenched her gaze from his and focused her gaze out the window on the sweep of the rain-drenched crescent. “Leaving me on the dance floor was beyond rude . . . sirrah.” Her tone was much harsher than she meant it to be, but in truth he deserved nothing less for his behavior.
“Nevertheless, I do wish you would forgive me. Please, Miss Chillton.” Mr. St. Albans stroked the top of her hand irritatingly, as if he thought the soothing motion might calm her. “For I assure you, dear lady, there is a good explanation for what appeared to be my most ungentlemanly behavior.”
Hannah twisted her captive hand and pulled it from his grip. “And just what, I ask, might that be, Mr. St. Albans?” This she should like to hear.
And so, evidently, did the Featherton sisters, for the room fell silent, and all eyes seized upon the gentleman.
Mr. St. Albans curled his fingers toward his palm and brought his fist to his mouth just as he cleared his throat. Gaming for time, Hannah suspected.
Then he glanced at each woman in turn, as if hoping that at least one of them would release him from his obligation of explanation.
But none of the ladies did so.
“Very well.” He cleared his throat again. A flush of color filled the tips of Mr. St. Albans’s ears as he hesitantly supplied his excuse for racing from the dance floor.
“I . . . I fear it might have been . . . the ham.”
Chapter Six
Queen Square
W hat in blazes? You send not a word for two full days, and now you tell me that
this
is the explanation you gave Miss Chillton and the Featherton ladies?”
Griffin St. Albans leaped up from his chair, nearly toppling the diminutive tea table Mrs. Hopshire had just set with a selection of cold meats, berries, and cheese. “Please, Garnet, tell me that you truly did not blame my sudden departure on my . . . bowels.”
“I’m afraid so, Griff. The moment I mentioned that the ham you devoured in the Tea Room—”
“But I had no ham.”
“No, but
I
did.” Garnet shook his finger at Griffin. “Do you wish a recounting of what I said on your behalf or not, brother?”
Griffin waved his hand resignedly, and Garnet continued, “Once I explained that the ham had caused a dreadful disturbance in your belly, the ladies were not about to speak another word of the entire incident.”
“And how were you so sure of the direction of their reaction?”
“Well, Griff, they are ladies after all, and as such can be counted upon to respond . . . well, gently.” Garnet leaned over the table and snatched up a thin slice of pork and popped it into his mouth, seeming to delight in the irony. “So you see, it was the best of all possible explanations.”
Griffin set his elbow on his knee and rested his forehead in his hand. “So help me to understand. Miss Chillton now believes that I was playing the rogue on the dance floor until I was compelled to find a chamber pot?”
He looked at Garnet, who was supping on yet another
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