—Mrs. Oliver’s Rules for Young Ladies
“I’m afraid that he won’t see us,” Sandrine said to Miss Hodwell as they traveled by carriage to Rydell House. Her friend had insisted on accompanying her to see Lord Dane about the petition. Sandrine also wanted to pass along the observations she’d made at the prizefight yesterday.
“Nonsense, of course he’ll see us. I have a plate of my fanciest macaroons. Of course we have no need of culinary bribes when you’re in the room. I do believe he appreciates you more than sweet treats.”
“He doesn’t appreciate me. He wants me to leave London, and he won’t be pleased to see me again.”
“I won’t allow him to dash your dreams simply because he wants a quick profit.”
“I’m willing to play any games necessary to win the manor house.”
“Is that what you’re doing with that fetching new hairstyle and those low-cut bodices? I think it’s a good plan to win his heart and bend him to your will.”
“You know about that?”
“I’m not blind, Sandrine. And I used to be a young lady myself.”
“Why did you never marry?”
“Never wanted to. Eve and I have built a wonderful life together.”
“You certainly have.”
“I must caution you though. Protect your heart carefully, lest Lord Dane hurt you again.”
“There’s no possibility of that. Any feelings I entertained for him are but a distant and distasteful memory.” She was no longer a foolish and sheltered girl. Now she wore a pink sash and played a rake’s wicked games.
“That’s the spirit. We’ll vanquish him yet.”
The same stern and dignified butler Sandrine had encountered before answered the door at Rydell House.
“Please tell Lord Dane that Miss Hodwell and Miss Oliver are here to see him,” Miss Hodwell said. “And we’ve brought macaroons.”
“Very good, ma’am. Please wait here.”
He returned swiftly and escorted them into Lord Dane’s study, where Dane was sequestered at his desk with a man who had a pockmarked face and wore spectacles and a drab gray suit.
“Miss Hodwell. Miss Oliver,” Lord Dane said. “May I present the Rydell steward, Mr. Leo Cleveland?”
Mr. Cleveland bowed without smiling and turned back to Lord Dane. “We should finish discussing the charity ball, your lordship.”
“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Cleveland,” Miss Hodwell said cheerily. “We brought a peace offering for you, Lord Dane.” She held out the silver plate piled high with macaroons. “Care to try one, Mr. Cleveland?”
“I don’t eat sweets, madam,” he said fussily, glancing at the plate with disdain.
“Lord Dane?”
He looked tired today but still breathtakingly handsome. It took a mighty effort not to stare at him. She’d so recently been pressed up against the rough bark of a tree by his formidable body. What she’d told Miss Hodwell had been a lie. She still had feelings for him, struggle as she might to banish them.
You have feelings for a man who doesn’t even exist, she reminded herself.
“Thank you, but I’m afraid if I eat one of those I’ll smudge the account books, and Cleveland will have none of that. These ladies are here about the fate of Squalton Manor, Cleveland. You recall their historical charity?”
“Oh yes, his grace sent a substantial donation to the Squalton Historical Society every year.”
“He did?” Sandrine asked, puzzled.
“It’s all recorded here.” Mr. Cleveland found a book and opened it. “Three hundred pounds per annum for the upkeep of Squalton Manor to benefit the Squalton Historical Preservation and Improvement Society and the Squalton Benevolent Society.”