Free The Lady Next Door by Laura Matthews Page A

Cromwell were allowed beer or not. Rather than turn to her father or mother for enlightenment, she said, “We are removing to our town house in York next week. I trust you and your family will be in Micklegate for the season.”
    “Mother and Louisa come in a week or so; Harry and I are already installed.”
    A complacent smile did nothing to warm her glacial beauty. “Then we shall meet at the assemblies.”
    If the earl was surprised that Miss Horton would partake of such a frivolous pastime as an assembly, he said nothing to indicate it. “Louisa is particularly looking forward to some entertainment. She was to have come out last year, but my father’s death of course prevented that. I fear it has seemed a long year for her, and doubtless I shall escort her to the rooms for the first assembly after they arrive."
    “Children,” declared Miss Horton, who was all of twenty years of age, “are all too impatient to fling themselves into the gaieties of society. I myself find within me reservoirs of peace and devotion which sustain me quite happily at home and abroad. Few ladies are so fortunate. They must look to the world for their amusement and diversion—balls, card parties, and plays, are the food on which they nourish themselves. A diet of trivialities, my lord, can only develop a weak mind and a slovenly character. Just so have the county families deteriorated, along with their intemperance, of course. You would do well to speak severely with your sister before she is beyond hope.”
    Much to Miss Horton’s astonishment, the earl laughed. “Poor Louisa is unlikely to be swayed by a few harmless entertainments, Miss Horton. She has the steadiest, most easygoing character of any young woman I’ve met; a delightful sense of humor allied with no common amount of understanding.”
    Miss Horton was offended. Not only had he laughed at her, but implicitly compared her unfavorably with his sister. She said stiffly, “Levity is not a characteristic I much admire, Lord Latteridge. I fear it shows a want of judicious consideration of the serious nature of life itself.”
    “Do you think so? I have always viewed laughter as the most treasured gift bestowed on man, to lighten his burdens and heighten his joys.” As though to validate his argument, in the pause which followed, a soft chuckle was the only sound in the room. All eyes turned to observe the cousin, Miss Sandburn, her face animated with pleasure at William’s droll observations. The two were oblivious alike to the censure of the Hortons or the earl’s approval; left to their own devices, they were finding pleasure in one another’s company. Which was a great deal more than Latteridge could say for himself. He was surprised by a grating sound from Miss Horton’s direction, and turned in alarm to see if she was choking. But, no! Her face was strained into a configuration of merriment, and she was valiantly attempting to laugh, unfamiliar as such an effort was.
    “My lord, you have a ready wit," she pronounced, as though quoting from a century-old script. “I shall look forward to renewing my acquaintance with Lady Louisa if she is grown as clever as you say. Seldom do I find someone who shares my tastes. Mark my words, we will become bosom friends.”
    A fine array of peaches, nectarines, plums, and pears was set out on the table, enabling Latteridge to question Lady Horton on whether they came from their own orchards. Although Miss Horton intervened to answer the question, the subject was changed and did not return to Lady Louisa. As soon as he was able without positive rudeness, the earl begged to excuse himself and his secretary.
    Once they had left the well-named Cromwell in the distance, Latteridge said, “I did not mean to drag you away from Miss Sandburn, William, but another ten minutes in that house was not to be borne. Forgive me for ignoring you at table; I fear I had little choice.”
    “The Hortons are not to be your in-laws, then?”