When dinner was concluded, Mr. Beaumont, having refused the invitation of port with an excuse of another engagement with a friend, bid the two gentlemen good night. Lord March had the very suspicion that this particular friend of his was quite positively a ‘she’, and casually remarked this to Stefan. He was met with silence, and therefore grunted to his friend: “I say Stefan, you aren’t so conversational tonight.”

“Forgive me for being such an insipid company,” returned Stefan. “But it would be a great help if you would, for once, keep your peace.”

“What in the deuce’s name is the matter with you? And you scowl like the devil,” the Viscount complained.

His errant friend helped himself with a glass of port before replying curtly, “Nothing’s wrong.”

Robert scrutinized Stefan's frowning countenance, and knew for certain that something was definitely putting his friend in fits of gloom. “Now out with it, old chap! What has been putting you in such a pucker all throughout the night? Not that you aren’t always wearing that countenance—God knows how oft you do. But don’t gammon me by saying naught is wrong, for there certainly is!”

For a while, Stefan doubted the wisdom of telling him what had transpired between him and Miss Davis the other night; doubtless, his friend would be of the opinion that the latter was yet another recipient of his pugnacity. On the other hand, though, he deemed Robert a confidant and knew for certain that a helpful advice was already in store for him. After all, the cheery Viscount was always inclined to share a piece of his mind.

“Miss Davis,” he said vaguely, with a wave of hand.

“Miss Davis!” Robert was a little astonished. “What about her?”

“We—I’m afraid I had hurt her… feelings —somehow.” Lord Stokeford let out a sigh, looking suddenly dejected. “It wasn’t my intention, but my temper got the better of me.”

The Viscount shook his head. “Poor creature!” he exclaimed. “Now I won’t delve any further into this squabble between the two of you; you know it is not in me to pry into other people’s affairs. How devilish it would seem! But I must say— and pray heed this!—‘tis your testy nature which really is the problem. Yes, you may look daggers on me, but I am dashed if not one more female complain I would be likely to hear soon about you!”

This reprove was received with a scowl. “Then I suppose you’ll tell me next that I am no lady’s man, and that I should dispense any thought of matrimony, for I’ll only make my future wife’s life a miserable mess.”

“Egad! If you must know how I’m dying to see you a happy married man! Now what I’m trying to tell is that you should try for once to be a little gallant to the ladies, and get rid of that stormy demeanour you’ve taken the passion to display. Damme, but I should say you’re a devilishly handsome man, Stefan, and an Earl, no less! Let them set their caps on you, and soon you’ll find them clamoring to dangle on your arm.”

“That seems to be disagreeable to me.”

Lord March chuckled softly. “Lud, but how unromantic! Anyway, you should sort this all out with Miss Davis, for an apology is certainly due her. Surely, you wouldn’t want to fall short from Miss Winscott’s regard by having a fall out with her dear cousin, eh? I warn you old chap: it would certainly put your courtship to a lamentable end.”

There was a pause. “Very well,” said Stefan finally. “I shall do what needs to be done, then.”

To which his friend assented fervently: “Indeed! But I must say you queered me tonight Stefan. Upon my word, you certainly did.”

At the question of to what cause did he earned such remark, Lord March grinned and regarded his friend with shrewd, twinkling grey eyes. “Why, I’ve never seen you so blue-deviled by just a mere chit in years!”

* * * *

The cool spring season was slowly slipping away, replaced by the warm breeze of summer and the detested heat of the sun (for fashionable ladies always dreaded the appearance of freckles). The Season was just coming to its height, with more gaieties among the fashionable London townhouses, with nobilities’ usual flaunting, with dashing young bucks engaging to excesses, with everyone attending theaters and, the most innate of all, with speculations of who-would-marry-who in the marriage mart!

But in no such occasions did Lord Stokeford engage his leisure; at one point, he found no relish in all of it; another, he was practically closeted in his study, and being such a diligent lord, was attending to the matters of his estate in Gloucestershire for the next few days. If one or two remarked his absence in a ball or dinner, or in White’s or Almack’s, one would be a recipient of shrug as a reply, accompanied by “You know Stokeford; such unsociable fellow as he is”.

By the end of the week, the Earl was found sauntering on Bruton Street, heading directly to the Winscotts’ dwelling at number five. Upon reaching the doorstep however, there was a moment’s hesitation to knock and the urge to turn back and leave. He gave his head a mental shake; he didn’t want to let things stay askew between him and his newly-found friendship with Miss Davis. Though startling as it might be, he admitted to himself (with enormous effort to grasp the truth) that he was somehow becoming fond of her. Wasn’t she the one who proposes this friendship with him? Wasn’t it remarkable that she did not recoil nor dread his presence? Wasn’t she vivacious and friendly enough to one choleric, solitary gentleman sometimes shunned by Polite Society? And most of all, didn’t she contrive to help him out to her cousin?

And so, with these realizations, knock he did, and a few moments later was ushered into the drawing room.

Bowing gracefully, he was received by Miss Winscott, who had smiled warmly at him and had expressed her delight of seeing him, and Miss Davis, who upon meeting his gaze had averted her sight elsewhere, and made a rather awkward curtsy.

“Pray sit down, my lord,” invited Miss Winscott. “Why, we haven’t set eyes on you these days! We could not help ourselves but wonder what has become of you. Didn’t we Caroline?”

“W-why—er, yes!” came the reluctant reply from her cousin, who seemed rooted on the very spot where his lordship first saw her.

“Oh, goodness, do stop tarrying on that corner and come sit with us, dear cousin!”

Caroline, having the disinclination to be drawn into an idle discourse with the Earl, refused the request. “Indeed, I should be glad to, but I—” her gaze went to the desk nearby, and instantly made a flimsy excuse. “I forget, I am yet to make a reply to Papa’s letter!” She scurried away and quietly retired to the chair, bent on keeping her silence.

Lord Stokeford cleared his throat and wisely brought Miss Winscott’s attention back to him. “I’m afraid that the matters concerning my estate kept me very much occupied these few days past,” he explained.

“But of course. ‘Tis a strain sometimes, is it not?”

“Indeed.” He fell silent then; his ineptitude in conversation took over him.

Miss Winscott, face still lit up with a placid smile, looked expectant for further utterances to come.

Another clearing of throat, and Lord Stokeford replied, “Fact is, Miss Winscott, the very intention of my visit today is to—”

Alas, as if fate were against him, he was cut short by the knock that fell on the door, followed by the reappearance of the perturbed butler. “A Mr. Milborne is here to see you, Miss Winscott, insisting that you know him.”

The ladies were apparently surprised upon hearing this announcement; Lord Stokeford scowled at the butler for this undesired intrusion.

Sophie gasped and stood up. “Mr. Milborne! Surely not Cedric Milborne?”

Then entered a fair-haired young man with a pair of light blue eyes and handsome countenance; he was of lean frame, average height, and in possession of an endearing smile one might wonder how many had been already captivated by it. He was dressed with utmost care and even with elegance: the cravat was neatly tied, green velvet coat fitted the slender figure to perfection, as well as the muscular thighs encased in cream breeches; his top boots were gleaming clean.

The man in question chuckled and said: “The one and the same, Sophie!”

“Oh, but this is an enormous surprise!” she laughed and extended a hand, to which he bowed over and kissed very gallantly. “Heavens, but it has been ages, Cedric!”

Lord Stokeford thought he was yet another hot-blooded admirer of Miss Winscott, but the familiar way he was calling her, that intimacy when he was holding her hand, were something different altogether. This Cedric fellow was something more than that, his lordship mentally noted. Could he be a rival to Miss Winscott’s hand? Ten to one, he is!

He needed not to wait long to be enlightened about this newcomer, for at once Miss Winscott made introductions between the two gentlemen, and told him that Cedric was a long-time friend of theirs, and was once a neighbor in Hampshire before they moved to settle permanently in London.

Mr. Milborne gazed on the formidable figure of the Earl, who was taller and apparently a few years older than him. That he was of the Quality, a titled gentleman did not in the least intimidate him; he bowed gracefully before his lordship. “Your humble servant sir!” Then he saw Caroline coming towards them and exclaimed, “Ah! If this ain’t Caroline! Look how you’ve grown, poppet! Already out, eh?”

She laughed, dispelling the pallor on her face earlier. “Don’t call me that, I beg, for ‘tis so silly to hear! And yes, I am a debutante this Season!”

“But what a beauty you’ve turned into! My word, I hardly recognized you! Not anymore that little girl running wild with mud on her cheeks!” he let out a hearty chuckle at the memory.

“Where have you been all this time, Cedric? Not a word we’ve heard from you these last two years, and now you suddenly turned up out of nowhere!” Sophie mildly reproved.

“Forgive me! And if you really must know, I’ve dawdled the two years traveling in the Continent! Should that be a plausible excuse?”

Amidst this pleasant reunion, however, Lord Stokeford eventually felt being left out. The day seemed unpropitious for his plan; what with Caroline avoiding him like the plague, and the arrival of this Cedric Milborne who sprung from the deuce knew where. He began to regret coming over here.

He maintained a polite silence, and was, as usual, replied in monosyllables whenever a question or two were directed at him. Mr. Milborne proved to be quite a garrulous sort, never taking pauses between one story and another. His lordship was of opinion that this fellow liked to be the center of all the attentions, but he certainly failed to attract his. He didn’t find anything interesting in Mr. Milborne’s person, nor the narratives of his travelling, and nor in the young man’s monologues. The only one thing that seemed to secretly amuse him was the surreptitious glances thrown by Caroline at his direction whenever she thought she went unobserved.

After partaking tea, and knowing this visit would be futile, his lordship intruded the conversation by begging to take his leave of them, for he could not stay longer as a more pressing engagement still awaited him.

But Miss Davis took him by surprise when she suddenly offered to show Lord Stokeford out.