He marched to the front door, where a stately figure awaited him.
“Lord Granville is not at home, sir.”
“Lord Channing is come to call upon Lady Granville. I believe she is expecting me.”
Bisset thought this unlikely. Lady Granville and Lady Olivia had returned a few minutes earlier from their picnic. They had looked as disheveled as the children.
“I believe Lady Granville is not yet returned, my lord,” he said diplomatically.
“Bisset, who is at the door?” Phoebe’s cheerful voice rendered the butler’s discretion as nought.
“Lord Channing, my lady. I didn’t know if you were receiving.”
“Oh, I don’t think I am,” Phoebe said, coming up beside him. “Good afternoon, Lord Channing. You find us at sixes and sevens, I fear. We have been having a picnic and are not at all respectable enough for visitors.” On anyone else such frankness would have been heard as discourtesy, yet somehow Phoebe managed to speak such truths without giving offense.
Godfrey bowed deeply. “Forgive me, madam. I will return at a more opportune moment.” He smiled as he straightened. “I wished only to pay my respects to you and Lady Olivia.”
Phoebe hesitated. It seemed churlish to send the man all the way back to Carisbrooke without so much as the offer of refreshment. She had promised that she would help Olivia deal with the suitors that Cato had warned would beat a path to her door. Better not to procrastinate with this one. “You must take us as we are, but pray come in, sir. May I offer you a glass of wine?”
Godfrey stepped with alacrity into the hall. “Thank you, Lady Granville.”
“Bisset, bring wine to the parlor. This way, Lord Channing.”
Godfrey followed her, noticing with a shock that the hem of her skirt had come down and she seemed to have grass in her hair.
“Olivia, look who has come to call,” Phoebe said brightly as she led the way into the parlor. “Lord Channing has come to pay his promised visit.”
Olivia was sitting on the window seat with Nicholas, weaving a daisy chain from the mound of limp flowers in her lap. The child leaning against her was half asleep, sucking a very grubby thumb. His mouth bore evidence of the red currant bush, and some of the juice had found its way onto Olivia’s gown of pale muslin. Her hair hung loose to her shoulders and she seemed to have daisies entwined in it, Godfrey realized in astonishment. And they were dead daisies too.
“Good afternoon, Lady Olivia.” He bowed from the doorway.
Olivia’s breath caught in her throat as his cold green eyes fixed upon her. His thin mouth smiled at her. She could detect no warmth in him, only menace. Even as she told herself she was being ridiculous, she could hear Brian’s taunting voice, see his narrowed eyes flickering over her as he looked for some new way to torment her. She had felt like a butterfly about to lose its wings when Brian had looked at her like that, and she felt exactly the same now.
She stood up, careful not to disturb the sleepy child. A shower of daisies fell from her lap. “You c-catch us unawares, I’m afraid, Lord Channing.”
That was more than apparent. Godfrey saw that her feet were bare and there were grass stains on her skirts. There was something offensive about the entire scene. These two high-born women looking like peasant girls on May morning, their hair disheveled, their cheeks touched with the sun, their gowns disordered. Like milkmaids, he thought with a twinge of disgust.
But according to Brian Morse, this particular milkmaid had a dowry of some hundred thousand pounds.
“I find your dishabille charming, madam.” He smiled and bowed again. “And who is the child?”
“Mine,” Phoebe said, moving swiftly to take up her son. “Earl Grafton… Bisset, ask Sadie to come and take him to the nursery.”
“Yes, my lady.” Bisset set the tray with wine decanter and glass on the table and left with stately tread.
There was a moment’s silence, then Olivia forced herself to speak. “Wine… you would like a glass of wine, sir.”
“Yes, I thank you.”
Olivia poured the wine, aware as she did so that he was looking at her bare feet. She felt as vulnerable as if she were naked. Her hand shook slightly as she gave him the glass; his fingers brushed hers and she was suddenly cold.
“My thanks, Lady Olivia.” He smiled as he took a sip of wine.
The arrival of the nursemaid and the handing over of the boy gave Godfrey the opportunity to examine his quarry more carefully. Untidy, yes, but there was something undeniably sensual about her. The thick dark hair, the large black eyes, the warm red mouth. A man would certainly not need to keep his eyes shut when he possessed Olivia Granville. He felt a pleasurable warmth in his loins.
“Do you find life at Carisbrooke interesting, Lord Channing?” Phoebe asked, desperately searching for a topic of conversation.
“I am equerry to the governor, madam. It is an interesting and rewarding position.”
“I imagine you spend much time with the king,” Phoebe said.
“Indeed I am much in His Majesty’s company,” he responded complacently. “But when I can, I enjoy solitude with my books.”
“Oh, do you have an extensive library, sir?” Phoebe shot Olivia a slightly indignant look, wondering why she was leaving the entire conversational burden to her.
“I have some interest in the philosophers, madam.”
“Greek or Roman?” Olivia inquired, correctly interpreting Phoebe’s look. She had retreated to the window seat once again and was sternly telling herself not to be stupidly fanciful. What possible menace could there be in Godfrey Channing?
“I find the works of Plato most enlightening,” Godfrey responded solemnly, hoping she wouldn’t launch into an exhaustive conversation on the subject. He had done a little reading but not enough to satisfy a true scholar. But he doubted that a woman, whatever Brian might say, could achieve true scholarship. Olivia probably merely dabbled and considered herself very learned.
“Which works in particular?” Olivia asked. “The Republic, I imagine, but also-”
Much to Godfrey’s relief, the question remained unspoken as the door burst open to admit a veritable whirlwind. There were children and dogs and a thin young woman with startling red hair and a mass of freckles, clad astoundingly in britches and doublet. There were cries of delight, much hugging and kissing, and one of the dogs, a large mustard-colored mongrel bitch, pranced and barked and greeted all in sight, including Lord Channing.
He kicked at the dog as she sniffed eagerly at his ankles, and she retreated with raised hackles.
“Juno, what is it?” The red-haired woman bent instantly to the bitch, smoothing her neck. The woman raised slanted green eyes to Godfrey and gave him a look of such derision he wanted to strangle her.
“Juno won’t hurt you. Unless, of course, you’re inclined to hurt her,” she said coldly.
“Portia, allow me to introduce Lord Channing.” Phoebe stepped forward out of the turmoil of children. “Lord Channing, Lady Decatur, Countess of Rothbury.”
Portia gave him a cold nod, her hand still on the dog’s head.
Godfrey’s bow was sketchy. He’d never seen a woman like this one. He knew, of course, of Rufus Decatur, Earl of Rothbury. A man with a checkered past. But he was still an aristocrat. What was he doing with such a travesty of a wife?
He turned to Phoebe. “I should make my farewells, Lady Granville, and leave you to your guests.”
“Oh, do you have to go so soon?” Phoebe murmured politely even as she gave him her hand.
“I have overstayed my welcome,” he responded, kissing her hand before bowing to Olivia. “Lady Olivia, I trust I may call upon you again?”
Olivia curtsied but made no reply. She could think of nothing to say that would prevent his return. Unless or until he made her a formal offer, she had no choice but to receive him.