Five
“Twenty minutes,” John grumbled, stomping impatiently up the stone carved steps leading to the door of Lord Landon’s townhouse. Twenty minutes for a polite call and to offer up a few pretty words. No one would be reading the bans or sampling linens after twenty minutes.
From behind the bay window three women pointed and stared, no doubt chattering on about how best to snare him in marriage.
Damn it all to Hell.
He’d better make it fifteen minutes.
Grudgingly John glared at the brass knocker, mentally reviewing the events which had landed him here. Utter madness. The blasted urn wasn’t worth this level of anguish, and the worst of it was he was nervous.
Nervous!
He’d spent entirely too much time selecting a flower from the hothouse that morning; actually worrying whether the girl would like his gift. Then he’d doubted the wisdom of presenting flowers, perhaps he should have brought chocolates… Didn’t all women love chocolate?
Christ he was pathetic. Cowed by the memory of some long dead female. He had stared down scads of French soldiers on the battlefield, coordinated troops on the continent, and faced death on a score of occasions, yet… the thought of entering that house and offering a few pretty words to some young miss left him thoroughly daunted.
The trio behind the glass remained within view. Did the women really think he couldn’t see them? Though impossible to make out faces beneath the window glare, he distinctly sensed their scheming claws reaching out and wrapping around his neck.
Bloody hell. This was a mistake.
He took a healthy step back, more than ready to tell his brother to keep the urn and exactly where he could stick it.
John stopped short, dragging a steadying breath into his lungs. Pathetic indeed. Panicking over a scene in the window. He could handle women. He’d learned the hard way that the fairer sex had a way of turning men to fools with their deceitful ways. Rona didn’t deserve the hold she still had over his life.
That steeled his nerve.
Wiping his mind, he lifted the knocker and rapped steadily on the door.
After all, this wasn’t a serious courtship, merely a ruse to assuage his brother’s conscience and paint a fresh smile on some silly chit’s face.
The heavy door opened to reveal a portly butler garbed in formal livery. The middle aged man stood little more than five feet tall and John had to bend slightly at the neck to address the man.
“Good morning.” He produced a calling card. “Lord John Breckenridge to call on Lady Penelope.”
The short statured butler lifted a bushy brow, flicking an assessing gaze the length of John—no doubt recalling the lingering scandal surrounding his name.
John quashed a flash of anger and impatience. Let’s get this over with. He shifted the silver papered box carrying Penelope’s gift to the opposite hand.
The movement sparked the butler to action. “Right this way, milord.” The short man turned smartly on a heel and led John down the brightly lit hall.
“Shush! He’s coming.” Urgent feminine whispering floated down the hall. “Quickly, girls, behave naturally. Penelope, sit by the piano.”
Penelope. A flash of green silk whipped through his mind. The very chit he was meant to woo.
