He had no right to want Caroline Marfront.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
“You must understand, Lady Caroline,” Lord Powell said, gesturing with his teacup in a manner that suggested he had practiced the movement, “that the south pasture requires a complete overhaul of the drainage system. The expense will be considerable, but the yield?—”
“Fascinating,” Caroline said, and meant none of it.
She had been sitting in Esther’s morning room for twenty-three minutes, which she knew because the clock on the mantel had chimed the quarter hour twice since Lord Powell’s arrival, and in that time he had covered: the south pasture’s drainage problem, the north pasture’s tenant dispute, the state of the stables, his views on crop rotation, and his deep conviction that two sons before forty was both achievable and essential to a man’s legacy.
Esther sat beside her with the fixed, pleasant expression of a woman who had perfected the art of looking engaged while thinking about something else entirely.
Lady Hayward had declined to attend, citing a headache, which Caroline suspected was less a headache and more an unwillingness to witness this particular variety of tedium.
“And you, Lady Caroline,” Powell continued, setting down his cup with the care of a man who believed his every gesture worthy of observation, “what are your particular interests?”
She looked at him. He had asked the question before.
“I paint,” she said, trying to hide her frustration. “And I read Latin. As I have told you before, my lord.”
“Are you certain?” His smile did not falter. “I do not quite recall asking you before.”
Caroline’s fists clenched. “Yes, my lord, you have asked?—”
“Do you paint landscapes?” he interrupted, already moving past the subject. “My mother was quite fond of landscapes. She had a watercolor of the estate that hung in the drawing room for years.”
“I paint figures,” Caroline said. “Nudes, mostly.”
Esther’s teacup rattled faintly against its saucer.
Lord Powell blinked. Once. Twice. Then he cleared his throat and said, with the determined cheer of a man refusing toacknowledge what he had just heard, “Well. That is certainly… unusual.”
Unusual. Another word carefully chosen to mean nothing at all while communicating everything.
“Your brother mentioned,” Powell said, pivoting with the grace of a man who had spent his life smoothing over uncomfortable moments, “that you enjoy reading. I confess I am not much of a reader myself. Estate management takes up the majority of my time.”
“Of course,” Caroline said.
“But I am certain,” he continued, “that once we are settled, you will find the demands of the household quite fulfilling. My mother always said that a well-run estate is a woman’s greatest accomplishment.”
Once we are settled.
He had said it as though the matter were already decided. As though Lewis’s approval and his own interest were the only variables that mattered.
Caroline looked at him—really looked at him—and saw a man who had already assigned her a role in his life. A pleasant, decorative role that required her to smile at his tenants and produce his heirs and ask no inconvenient questions about anything beyond the running of his household.
She thought, suddenly and unbidden, of Anthony’s hands on her waist in the studio. The way he had looked at her painting with genuine attention, not polite dismissal. The way he had kissed her as though she was the only thing in the world worth kissing.
She pushed the thought away with the ruthless efficiency she had been practicing for days.
“Lady Caroline?” Powell was looking at her with faint concern. “Are you quite well?”
“Perfectly well,” she said, and smiled. “Please, tell me more about the drainage system.”
“You are not even looking at her,” Gideon said.
Anthony lifted his glass and drained the rest of his brandy without tasting it. “I am looking.”
“You are staring at the wall behind her head. Lady Thornwood has been attempting to engage you in conversation for the past five minutes, and you have not said a single word.”