He was growing weary of Hugh, too.
So Grif sought to escape his valet’s attentions with a walkabout, but on his return to Dalkeith House, he had the misfortune of encountering Lady Worthall, who informed him that she was still anxiously awaiting a reply to her letter to Lady Dalkeith, in which she had explained his lordship’s early arrival and indefinite plans.
Short of responding with a “bloody grand for ye,” Grif tipped his hat, wished her a good day, and walked on.
When he entered the foyer of Dalkeith House, he was met by Miss Brody, who was holding a cup of something that smelled foul and was a rather putrid shade of green.
“What in God’s name are ye carrying about?” he asked, waving a hand in front of his nose at the smell.
“A tincture, sent by the lass who comes round to see ye,” she stoically informed Grif. “For Mr. Dudley and his gout, it is. He’s abed again.”
“Then by all means, do take it to him,” Grif said gruffly. It was increasingly obvious that an ailing Dudley needed to be home with Fiona, who knew how to care for his old body.
Miss Brody shrugged, shut the door behind him. “The lass left ye this as well,” she added, and pulled a small vellum from her pocket and thrust it at Grif as she walked on.
Grif glanced at the vellum she had given him, and was rather surprised by Anna’s flourished handwriting. He would have thought it uneven and carelessly blotted with ink. He took the note to the small library, sat at the writing desk, and opened the missive.
There was another piece of vellum within; the first was an invitation to a weekend affair at the home of Lord and Lady Featherstone in Yorkshire. The invitation touted a Friday evening supper party, lawn games on Saturday, and culminating with a ball that night. Behind that invitation was a smaller piece of folded vellum. He unfolded it and read:
To the esteemed Lord Ardencaple, Greetings and Salutations:
My sister, Miss Lucy Addison, will be in attendance at the Garthorpe soirée tonight. I should very much appreciate your efforts to converse with her about Scotland, for she is quite keen on learning more about the north of Britain. I know that you enjoy conversation and I think you will find her company very pleasurable indeed, as she is a most attentive companion.
Sincerely,
Miss Addison
He could feel the heat rising in his face; he crumpled the damn thing and hurled it halfway across the room. Her impertinence was astonishing—now she thought to instruct him? Aye, it was part of the bloody agreement he’d struck, and if he wanted the blasted beastie, he’d do as she asked. But her insolence was unbearable.
The thing that angered him most about Anna’s reminder and made matters worse… far worse—so much worse that he was of half a mind to hie himself over to London Bridge and plunge his arse into the Thames—was that he could not stop thinking about her.
Aye, her, the diabhal. The vexing, perpetually annoying and highly offensive and terribly alluring her.
There could not have been a person more surprised or astounded by this change of heart than he. Not a fortnight ago, he would have sworn on the Stone of Destiny that he’d never esteem that woman in any way. And while he wasn’t entirely certain he was esteeming her, precisely, she had certainly somehow managed to get under his skin.
The last thing he wanted or needed at this point was to have some ridiculous enchantment of Anna. Just as the wench had said yesterday afternoon when she had rolled to her knees, dragged her hand across her mouth, her hair wildly mussed, her skin pink: It was insupportable.
He’d been so bloody confident in his ability to fetch the beastie and have a bit of sport while he was in London. Nothing could have prepared him for this unfathomable turn of events.
Aye, he’d do well to push her into Drake Lockhart’s arms and have his beastie and be done with this.
Which is precisely what he intended to do this very evening at the Garthorpe soirée. If he could, by some miracle, bring himself to do it.
At the Garthorpe soirée, Grif found Lucy early on and made himself a fixture at her side, regaling her and the other debutantes with tales of Scotland: “The heather is so thick, one feels as if one is floating on a cloud when walking,” and “The sky is as blue as a robin’s egg, and clouds as white and thick as lamb’s wool.”
When one of the debutantes remarked that she had always had the opinion Scotland was dreary, Grif bristled. “Dreary? Why, Christ and his saints slept in Scotland, lass!”