Page 29 of One Thing Leads to a Lover

So she sat down at the table, traced with one fingertip the start of an angular P that had been carved into its top, and took her turn at waiting in the schoolroom quiet.

Too quiet.

She was on her feet again a moment later, straightening some books on one shelf before crossing to the second door, which opened onto a room almost too narrow for the bed and washstand it contained. A nurse had occupied it when the boys were small, and under more ordinary circumstances, it would then have been turned over to a governess. Amanda used it for storage.

When she emerged a moment later, bearing two rolled-up maps and a box of geometric shapes, Lewis was just stepping into the schoolroom with the breakfast tray.

“Good morning, milady. I didn’t see you there.” He placed the tray on the table, executed a swift bow, and then hurried forward to relieve her of her burden.

“Good morning, Lewis,” she said, blowing from her eyes a lock of hair that had worked its way loose during her search and then brushing the dust from her hands.

“Just say the word, milady, and I’ll see that storeroom made spick and span.”

“Oh, it’s hardly worth the effort,” she answered, seating herself as he poured her coffee. “If it were all clean and organized, I might never find anything again.”

Lewis dared a smile. “Yes, milady. Will there be anything else?”

“Thank you, no.”

He bowed in acknowledgment but nevertheless paused before descending to give a considerably firmer rap than she had on the boys’ door. “Breakfast, Lord Kingston, Master Philip. Your mother’s waiting.”

She still had time to butter and eat her toast, sample the eggs, and start on her second cup of coffee before two sleepy faces joined her at the table, Philip first, declaring he was famished, as always, and Jamie a moment later, yawning as he pushed his hair out of his face.

“Good morning,” she said, her cheerfulness not forced—she was happy to see her sons, though dread of the coming conversation with George hung over her like a cloud. “We are in danger of becoming dilettantish with our lessons, boys. Noses to the grindstone today, I’m afraid.” She paused for a sip of coffee, fortifying herself not against the chorus of their grumbles but against the words she was determined to say next. “But first, I have a question.”

Jamie and Philip turned toward her, Jamie’s eyes dark like her own, Philip’s blue like his father’s, both pairs bright with curiosity despite the general air of sleepiness. They were good boys, growing into good young men. She could not expect to keep them by her side forever. They might even want to go away to school. Either way, they deserved to have some say in their future, in the plans Lord Dulsworthy had for them.

“Later this morning,” she began, “your Uncle George will be calling to discuss something of importance with me.”

He called frequently enough that the visit could not be a matter of particular interest to either of them. Philip, though generally optimistic, turned back to his breakfast while waiting to hear the rest, evidently having decided that another outing in the phaeton was unlikely to be on offer. Jamie, however, narrowed his gaze—only slightly, but enough to make her think that he suspected something.

That look was enough to weaken her resolve. “And so I wondered whether you would rather begin this morning with drawing,” she gestured toward the box of shapes, “or defer that lesson until after the interruption and start with geography instead?” She laid her hand on the rolled-up maps, hoping to disguise its tremble.

“Geography,” declared Philip around a mouthful of porridge. He generally lacked the patience for drawing.

“Whatever you think is best, Mama,” said Jamie, his trusting, steady gaze freighting the words with additional meaning.

Or so she chose to believe.

“Very well, then. Geography it is,” she said, rising to set aside the box and clear room to unroll one of the maps. “Finish your breakfast and we’ll begin.”

Not quite two hours later, she left the boys with a project to sketch the major rivers of Europe and Asia and went downstairs to freshen up before her meeting. She wished to appear cool and collected, not harried and a little dusty. And she did not want to be late, either.

She had already arranged to have Lord Dulsworthy shown into the library, not the drawing room. She would greet him from the chair behind her late husband’s desk, to remind him of the authority she still held as the boys’ mother and the Countess of Kingston.

She opened the library door and found…her mother.

Most mornings at this hour, she would still be in bed, drinking her chocolate, reading through her post and the newspaper, meticulously arranging her daughter’s life.

Now she stood in the library, running a finger over a row of book spines, apparently searching out a tome on agriculture and estate management—unless Matthews’s cleaning project of a few days ago had resulted in a total reorganization of the shelves.

“Mama, this is a surprise.”

She turned sharply, eyes wide. The hand that had been trailing over the bookshelf fluttered down to her chest. “Goodness, Amanda, what a fright you gave me. I never heard you come in.”

If she didn’t know it would violate her mother’s strict sense of propriety, Amanda might have suspected Mama of having once considered a career on the stage. Though not the London stage. Perhaps a troupe that traveled to villages and country towns where the audience’s expectations of the actors’ skill were considerably more modest.

“I suppose you must’ve already heard. Lord Dulsworthy is to arrive momentarily and I’ve arranged to have him shown in here.”