Yorick finished watering the lamppost, and Mannering picked him up. “Wellington said if his troops had been as well trained as Will Dorning’s dogs, then Waterloo would have been an afternoon’s romp.”
Messy business, Waterloo. Had Effington’s title not limited his options, he would have been in the thick of it, surely.
“Dorning trains the animals himself, in person?”
“Every one. Some are strays. The collies, he breeds in Dorset. Worth a pretty penny too, but he’s very particular about who he’ll sell them to.”
Ah, well then. No need to fret at all. “He’s an earl’s spare, and he not only trains dogs, he sells them for coin. I suppose his brothers trade in chickens, geese, and cheeses. How splendid. Mannering, you have quite made my day. You will please ensure Lady Della understands the caliber of swain she’ll have slobbering at her heels should I quit the field.”
*
“I don’t think his lordship’s coming, milady.”
Jeffers twirled the parasol Della had appropriated from Susannah for this visit to the park. Susannah herself had taken to spending most mornings reading in the fresh air, and thus Della had brought a maid with her to wait for Lord Effington near Park Lane.
All of Polite Society was assembling for the farce that was the fashionable hour, and Effington was nowhere to be seen.
“We’ll give his lordship five more minutes,” Della said. “Perhaps he came down with a megrim, or his horse threw a shoe.”
Jeffers’s sigh spoke volumes, about earls’ daughters who’d become smitten with the dubious charms of sunshine, large trees, and green grass; about the pleasure of strolling around town when a maid’s highest ambition was to get off her feet for five minutes.
“Horses do lose shoes, my lady. At least hold the parasol. A woman can’t be too careful with her complexion.”
“What is the point of avoiding freckles if my doting swain has decided to avoid me?” Della asked.
Jeffers was several years Della’s senior, and worlds more experienced with what mattered. Hard work. Holding one’s tongue. Men. She did not deserve to be the object of Della’s exasperation.
“Gentlemen are a trial,” Jeffers said. “This is your first Season, milady, so the frustrations of dealing with the gentlemen are new to you, but the parasol is ever so pretty, and with that green dress, it’s quite fetching.”
The green dress would have looked better on a woman with blond hair. The lacy purple parasol was intended to be eye-catching, to make sure all and sundry knew that Lady Della Haddonfield was enjoying the park on the arm of Viscount Effington, and that a match was said to be in the offing.
“I hate that parasol,” Della muttered.
Diplomatic silence greeted her admission.
“I hate London, I hate the Season, I hate every—”
And there he was, the man Della had been discreetly inquiring after and searching for from ballroom to bookshop to bridle path. Jeffers must have seen him too, lounging against a sturdy oak, his regard neither subtle nor particularly respectful.
He touched one gloved finger to his hat brim.
“We should go, my lady,” Jeffers muttered. “I do believe it feels like rain. I’m sure of it, in fact. The London weather can be so fickle, don’t you know? Wouldn’t want Lady Susannah’s parasol to get a soaking, now would we?”
In the middle of a sunny afternoon, thunder and lightning threatened from the dark-haired fellow beneath that oak. He was exquisitely attired in dark gray breeches, a silver waistcoat, and black riding coat. His boots were polished and well fitted, his top hat brushed to a shine.
He was intimidatingly magnificent, exactly as a ducal heir should be.
“Take these bread crumbs,” Della said, shoving the bag at Jeffers. “Feed the fowl on the Serpentine, and take the parasol with you. I’ll stay here in the shade, so you needn’t fret about my complexion.”
Jeffers made a noise of exasperation and defeat, snatched the bag, and stomped off toward the grassy bank of the Serpentine.
The gentleman pushed away from the oak and sauntered toward Della, or maybe he was swaggering. Had he been waiting for her, and what would Della do if Effington decided to belatedly keep his appointment to stroll at the fashionable hour?
“Lady Della Haddonfield,” the man said, tipping his hat. “How easily you divest yourself of the only protection on hand to shield your good name. Shall I muster a mutual acquaintance to make a proper introduction, or can we dispense with that farce?”
He had eyes the blue of a winter sky over a deserted churchyard, and a voice that blended the erudition of an Oxford don with the dissipation of a royal prince. Della estimated his age near thirty, and the wealth he came from at nearly immeasurable.
She had been raised with five brothers, else she might not have known what to do with a man who was as handsome as every debutante’s dream, unmarried, exquisitely attired, and very much in need of a set-down.
If Della had had the infernal purple parasol, she would have smacked him with it. Instead, she rose and walked away.