Mariah sank gracefully onto the cushions while Robert collapsed into the chair opposite them. “Yes, thank you.”
His mother smiled and poured cups, handing one to Robert and a second to Mariah. “So, Miss Winslow—”
“Mariah, please,” she interjected. “I would be honored if Your Grace would use my Christian name.”
Robert choked on his tea. And on her flattery.
But his mother didn’t seem to notice. Instead, her smile brightened. “It is indeed a pleasure to have you here at Park Place, Mariah.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
Robert studied her closely. The smile she gave the duchess seemed wholly genuine. And lovely. What would it feel like to have her guilelessness aimed at him for once, instead of her rancor?
Mariah offered politely, “Your house is beautiful. I’d heard stories about how grand it is, but they certainly didn’t do it justice.” She trailed her gaze admiringly around the room. “I’m so fortunate to be here this afternoon.”
Robert fixed his gaze on her, wariness nipping at his heels. “Why is that?”
She smiled patronizingly at him. As if he were a bedlamite. “Because Her Grace has so graciously offered to help with my season.”
“It’s my pleasure, my dear,” Mother assured her and gained Mariah’s grateful smile.
Robert tightened his jaw. How could she do it, be so sincere and polite to his mother yet remain ready to sink her claws into him the moment his guard slipped? She was more cunning than he’d given her credit for.
“When Robert asked me if I would help with your season, I wanted to have this opportunity for us to meet, to see if we would be a good fit to take on society together.” His mother rested her hand on Mariah’s arm and softly assured her with sympathetic understanding, “I would never attempt to take the place that your mother should have had, but perhaps we can work to give you the kind of season she would have wanted for you.”
Mariah’s lips parted slightly as she stared at the duchess, absorbing the offer she’d just made, and the glistening of emotion in her eyes struck him with unexpected force. She’d truly been affected by his mother’s kindness.
Perhaps beneath her thorns, the Hellion possessed a real heart after all.
“Thank you, Your Grace,” Mariah whispered, so softly that Robert barely heard her. “I think Mama would have liked that, very much.”
His mother’s eyes softened on Mariah. “I understand that you’ve had quite a difficult time with your seasons in the past.”
Mariah nodded, turning her face away. Despite the torment she’d unleashed upon him, his chest tightened in quick sympathy for her. “As I’m sure Your Grace knows, it can be hard to make a proper introduction without the right connections.” She looked down at her tea as she admitted to his mother, “And perhaps my sister, Evelyn, and I have behaved a bit…well…”
“Scandalously?” he prompted, wanting an end to that behavior before the season started. They had enough of an uphill battle before them already. He didn’t need any more phaeton races to tarnish her introduction.
“Impetuously,” she corrected, shooting him a peeved glance. “But we’ve never really had proper guidance in the niceties of society. We’re a shipping merchant’s daughters.” She gave a faint, rueful smile. “The Winslow women have always been more concerned with docks than drawing rooms.”
“Until now,” he added, subtly reminding her of her father’s ultimatum. “When you’re embarking on a new life as a respectable lady.”
At that, she stiffened, her shoulders and spine going ramrod straight. But she didn’t deign to look at him as she explained to the duchess, “I’m afraid that Papa’s never known what to do with us. We were sent away to school, to Miss Pettigrew’s in Cornwall. When I came back, I was ready for my debut, but I had no female relatives to help me. As you know, a season can be overwhelming, and I felt lost in the middle of all of it.”
“Oh, you poor dear!” His mother’s face fell as she reached to squeeze Mariah’s elbow.
Robert narrowed his eyes over the rim of his teacup. How much of her confessions were genuine, and how much nothing more than an attempt to wrap his mother around her finger? He didn’t trust one pink-ribbon-clad inch of her.
“But that’s all in the past now,” his mother murmured, sympathetically patting the back of Mariah’s hand. “You must look forward to a brand-new season.”
“That’s why I’m so grateful to you, Your Grace.” The prick of that cut to him was carefully mitigated by an appreciative smile for his mother.
Robert’s mouth twisted as he watched her. She might have genuinely appreciated his mother’s kindness, yet clearly, she still viewed him as the enemy. And he suspected that the performance of a proper debutante that she was putting on this afternoon was purely for his punishment. He might as well be wearing a target on his back.
But she was mistaken if she thought she could declare hunting season on him.
“You see, this is my…” Mariah lowered her voice. “My seventh season.”
“Seventh time’s the charm,” Robert muttered behind the rim of his teacup.
“Oh, I certainly hope so!” she exclaimed with a deep, heartfelt sigh.
He bared his teeth in a crocodile smile and mumbled, “I certainly hope so.”
Her shoulders stiffened. She’d heard him all right, even though she didn’t spare him a glance.
“Well, we will do the best we can.” His mother offered her the plate of cucumber sandwiches. “And how exactly do you know my son, Mariah?”
Blinking, she swung her gaze to him, as if surprised to find him there. “You mean Lord Robert?”
He smiled patronizingly. He was the only man in the room, after all.
She delicately selected a tiny sandwich and placed it on the edge of her saucer. “He’s a business acquaintance of some sort of my father’s, aren’t you, Lord Robert?”
“Yes.” His lips tightened in irritation, both at her and at her repeated use of his courtesy title. “Of some sort.”
He couldn’t contradict her, nor could he reveal the truth. He needed the duchess to take her on for the season, and any hint of a squabble between them would have Mother refusing immediately in his defense.
Rather, he hoped that she’d defend him. From the way she kept smiling so warmly at Mariah, he wasn’t certain.
“My apologies.” She gave a shrug of her slender shoulders, the innocent gesture made even more unassuming by the bows of pink ribbons adorning her puffy sleeve caps. “My father has so many hangers-on of all kinds these days that I simply cannot keep them all straight!”
He smiled smugly. “Then you’ll be happy to know that there will be considerably fewer hangers-on”—setting his tea aside, he leaned confidently back in the chair and quirked a brow to emphasize his words—“once your father confirms my partnership.”
“A partnership?” she repeated in a pleased drawl, one that curled dread through him and announced that the minx had figured out that he wanted to keep Winslow’s challenge to him secret from his mother. “Are you certain?”
“Yes,” he answered, annoyed that she dared to question it.
“Truly?”
“Verily.”
“Impossible!”
“Highly probable.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“You should.”
His mother silently followed the back-and-forth volleys as if she were watching a tennis match.
“Well, goodness.” Mariah blinked. “I thought you were to be a clerk!”
Clenching his jaw in anger, Robert leaned forward, a cutting reply on his tongue—
“Have a tart, dear.” His mother shoved the plate beneath his nose.
He snapped back his head, nearly inhaling a strawberry. “What the—”
“Oh yes, Lord Robert.” Mariah smiled ingenuously at him. “I’ve heard how much you enjoy tarts.”