Page 23 of The Best Marquess

Christ. How often had they heard that tale of woe? Yet it was only directed at his wife; apparently his own mother and Lady Kingsford having birthed one child was quite acceptable.

Goddamned sack of shit hypocrite.

Finn counted backward from twenty as the silence seethed with his fury, his father’s bitter resentment, and his mother’s hurt. He didn’t want to hate his own father, but Pinehurst made it impossible with his cruel declarations and standards that could never be met. No doubt if they’d gone to Waterloo and captured Napoleon himself, it would have been done on the wrong day, at the wrong time, in the wrong way.

Thankfully the carriage in front of them finally moved on from the double doors of Kingsford House, and they were able to disembark.

While the cream stone façade and four-bay length made the Nash family townhouse look large and modern, inside was something quite different. For some unknown reason it paid homage to the Tudor era; all narrow hallways and stairs, small, diamond-paned windows, and enough dark paneling to make the rooms feel small and oppressive even when they weren’t. Sure, the entrance hall wasn’t an emotionless blank canvas, but warmth could be sucked from any space with Lady Kingsford leading the receiving line wearing her usual lilac gown and diamonds.

After his parents greeted the dowager then moved along to shake hands with Lord Kingsford, Northam, Pippa, and Georgiana, Finn made his bow.

“Knighton,” the elderly woman said, gazing at him the way an insect enthusiast might size up a pinned moth. “I am pleased your father is here.”

“Lady Kingsford,” he replied cheerfully, just to annoy. “Honored to be here also.”

“One does try to be charitable…ah, my dear Lord Campbell. How delightful to see you. Welcome to my humble soiree. And…Lady Campbell.”

Finn glanced back and exchanged an eye roll with his favorite baroness, a fellow member of the Lady Kingsford disfavor club. The dowager couldn’t ignore or exclude them, they were too well-connected for that, so relied on barbs as punishment. Yet she adored Campbell, though. Ugh. Those two plus his father could only be described as an unholy trinity. But it didn’t matter anyway, he and Pippa would win the day with their betrothal announcement.

Finn bowed to Pippa’s father. “Evening.”

“Evening, Knighton,” said Lord Kingsford pleasantly. “Glad to see you, as always. Must offer my thanks for yet another service, keeping Exton company while Lilian was in childbed. ‘Tis an anxious wait for a husband, that.”

He grinned. “Congratulations on becoming a grandfather, my lord.”

The earl beamed in return. “Amanda holds my whole heart in her tiny hand already. Sweet as spun sugar, that one. And such a perfect name—”

“You two are holding up the line,” said Lady Kingsford, her low tone cracking like a whip.

“Heaven forfend,” muttered Northam, shaking Finn’s hand. “I’ll add my thanks. Would’ve liked to have been there, but another urgent matter required my attention.”

Finn nodded. Most thought the young and vibrantly dressed viscount was no more than a feckless, charming rake, but sometimes he wondered if Pippa’s twin didn’t have his own secrets. Northam could be exceedingly vague when it came to his plans and whereabouts. “No trouble at all.”

“Good evening, Finn. Are you well?”

Pippa. Like a crisp breeze on an overwarm day, standing beside Northam and looking beautiful yet uncharacteristically dramatic in scarlet, spectacles perched low on her nose. She was anxious though, and he wanted to wrap her in another comforting embrace. Discreetly squeezing her hand would have to suffice, but it would never compare to the paradise of holding her. “I am well. Eagerly anticipating the events to come. Let me also compliment you on a most fetching gown.”

“I was instructed to wear white but got confused,” she said placidly.

Finn laughed. The dowager would hate this color. “It happens.”

“Hurry up, you two,” said Georgiana, holding out her hand for Finn to bow over. “You are preventing me liberating some of Father’s brandy to fortify my nerves before the string quartet begins in earnest. Quite unforgiveable.”

“Humblest apologies, Little G,” he replied. “But now I know what to purchase for your next birthday. A reticule-sized silver flask.”

She winked, the action entirely at odds with her angelic appearance in white satin. “That could be acceptable. Continue on with such notions, and one day you might even make it into my good graces.”

Finn’s lips twitched. No way would a gentleman skunk ever tame this minx. He almost pitied the man who genuinely fell in love with her; Georgiana’s husband would require nerves of steel. “One can only strive.”

Now he’d reached the end of the receiving line, he sauntered into the fussy drawing room near-bursting with people despite the weather outside and the fact that parliament had only just returned to session. When Lady Kingsford issued an invitation, one had to practically be on their deathbed to decline, although as his father had demonstrated, even that was negotiable. The only high-ranking couple not here were Gabriel and Lilian; she wouldn’t attend events again until after she was churched. However, there were a plethora of politicians, peers, Almack’s patronesses, and ambassadors, even two of the unmarried royal dukes. That would set tongues wagging that they weren’t as opposed to a bride as they had previously demonstrated.

“Evening, Knighton. Quite a crush, isn’t it?”

Surprised at the greeting, Finn turned and bowed to the lanky, dark-haired Duke of Devonshire. If it weren’t for the company William Cavendish kept and the marital plots he agreed to, they might have even been friends, for they had a fair amount in common. Similar age, tumultuous upbringings with cold fathers, mothers who stepped out with other men, and secret half-sisters. The poor duke had inherited the title as a raw twenty-one-year-old, though, a burden he wouldn’t wish on anyone. “Devonshire. Don’t want to alarm you, but as we speak there are at least two dozen young ladies watching your every movement.”

“They are probably watching you as well, plenty would be well satisfied to be a viscountess and eventually a marchioness. Sometimes I consider propping up a life-sized mannequin of myself against a wall and fleeing to my greenhouse, see if anyone actually notices I’m gone.”

“I’m sure they would. Eventually. When you failed to dance or fetch lemonade.”