Page 37 of The Best Marquess

“Lady Kingsford is…rather forceful,” he said hesitantly.

Pippa snorted. “Try living with the woman. No, actually, don’t. I would not recommend it. But listen. As someone else close to me accurately noted, Your Grace, you are twenty-five, have all your own teeth, don’t creak when you walk, and dress rather well. Plus, those other things like ancient title, multiple estates and fortune, et cetera, et cetera. Why don’t you wed someone you truly love? Who truly loves you? Duty marriages are a pox on society. A barnacle on the backside of happiness.”

Devonshire chuckled, albeit a trifle sadly. “The more you say, the more I like you, Lady Pippa. Knighton is a fortunate man. But while this isn’t the first time I’ve been tossed over for a viscount; I pray it is the last. Now, I shall bow and strategically retreat…if, however, you ever need a friend, you may call on me. I mean that.”

“Much obliged, Your Grace,” she said, patting his hand. “I hope you find the one you are looking for. Romance novels decree that quite often the path to love is rocky and treacherous, filled with wolves and snakes and pits of despair before the sunshine and rainbows of Utopia.”

His lips twitched madly, then he lifted her hand and kissed it. “Bless you, Lady Pippa. Please give my regards to your grandmother. Wait. On second thought…do not.”

Pippa laughed. “Fare thee well, Your Grace.”

After the duke departed, the other women in the room practically sprinted back.

“Well?” said Lady Voyce breathlessly.

Lady Kingsford’s expression was the very portrait of self-satisfied. “Devonshire kissed dear Pippa’s hand. I think we all know what that means.”

“It means that the duke and I decided we shall be great friends but definitely not husband and wife,” said Pippa brightly, her smile broadening as her grandmother’s face turned to stone.

Another round in the ring, another defeat for the devil’s unofficial handmaiden.

Nothing could upend her life now, for Pippa Pearl Nash had full control.

Exactly as it should be.

Chapter 8

The following morning, Finn pulled up his curricle to the Kingsford townhouse with a flourish, and waited for Pippa to come dashing outside. After making arrangements with Abby, who had chosen not to be present for the visit, he’d sent Pippa a cheery note to invite her on the promised grand tour of the Bliss premises.

He felt like a child the night before their birthday. Hell, he’d actually dithered over his wardrobe choices, to the point his valet had probably been on the verge of strangling him. But he’d opted for fawn trousers, muted gold waistcoat, and dark blue jacket with brass buttons. Pippa loved the color blue, so he hoped it boded well for the day.

He tapped his fingers on the side of the curricle, frowning when Pippa failed to appear. Perhaps she’d been waylaid by her grandmother or yet another family situation, and needed rescuing. At Kingsford House, that was nearly a daily occurrence after all.

Abruptly the front door opened, but it wasn’t Pippa.

“Morning, Lord Knighton,” said a footman as he approached. “Would you like me to hold the reins while you wait?”

“Much obliged,” Finn replied, handing the man a sixpence before walking into the entrance hall.

“Lord Knighton!” said the butler, inclining his head. “Ah…good morning. May I assist with something?”

“Good morning,” he said. “I’m just waiting for my betrothed. We’re going on an outing.”

The older man hesitated, an odd expression crossing his face. “Would you excuse me one moment, my lord? I’ll find out where Lady Pippa is.”

Confused, Finn leaned against a pillar. Was he early? Pippa was perhaps the most punctual person in England; he’d never had to wait for her in sixteen years. Truthfully, he didn’t want to spend any longer inside Kingsford House than necessary. The Tudor homage décor was so damned gloomy and oppressive.

When Lady Kingsford appeared at the top of the stairs, he groaned. Of all the Nash family members, why did it have to be the only one he truly despised?

“Knighton,” she said curtly, not even bothering to coat her tone with the thinnest layer of treacle. “What are you doing here?”

The gloves were indeed off.

“Waiting for Pippa, my lady. We’re going on an outing.”

“Unfortunately, you aren’t,” she replied, gliding down the stairs. “My granddaughter is…indisposed.”

“She’s unwell? Oh dear. I didn’t receive any word of that, no doubt there is a note sitting in the mail tray at home—”