When they retreated the room and completely out of earshot, it was the singular opportunity Lord Stokeford was seeking from the moment he entered the drawing room. And yet now that he could have Miss Davis solely to himself, he was deprived the power of speech. That this slip of a chit seemed to affect him a great deal was something his lordship could neither grasp nor comprehend. But then, he reflected, he wasn’t at all accustomed to render flatteries or to fall on one knee and ask prettily for a damsel’s forgiveness for causing her distress, and blamed his inexperience at this matter for the suspicious hammering of his heart, and the lack of idea what to say next.

Finally he found his voice and started his discourse by clearing his throat, but the words came stumbling out nebulously. “Caro—“ clears throat again, “that is, Miss Davis, I just wanted to…to… Well, you see, there’s something I… About the other night—”

Surprisingly, he was somehow interrupted by Caroline’s own contrite voice saying, “I am terribly sorry for my behavior earlier, my lord!”

His lordship was bemused. “I beg your pardon?”

“I’m afraid I’ve not been…well, agreeable on your entire visit, sir,” She heaved a sigh of remorse. “Only that I shouldn’t have been evading your company, and I…I lied about writing a letter to Papa, for I never jotted down a word, and—oh dear—it was all pointless scribbling, and I wasted paper and so much ink just for the pretense! Indeed, I deserve to have my ears boxed!”

The Earl, having a little difficulty to discern the very point of these utterances, only murmured, “Well, wouldn’t that hurt?”

A peal of laughter was let out. She said: “I daresay it would, but it is no less than I deserve.”

“No, you deserve none of it. I rather believe that I do,” he replied firmly and looked squarely into those wide green eyes with utmost earnestness. “Miss Davis, I was the one who had been disagreeable and acted very crude to you that night at Almack’s. Indeed my behavior was deplorable, but what’s done cannot be undone,” there was a glint of regret in his eyes. “And I sincerely apologise for it.”

He ended this pronouncement with a deep bow, to which Miss Davis replied hurriedly, shaking her head: “O-oh, no! No! I should be the one who must beg your pardon! You see, I—I was trying to avoid you, because I said some dreadful things to you, and I am very much guilty!” Her gaze fell to the ground, and she added in a subdued tone: “It’s only that I think it unbearable if you would start to treat me coldly.”

This admission, so candidly put, quite disarmed the Earl like nothing ever did before. To think how a girl of no more than seventeen summers could be so honest to her true feelings, while others of her age must have been polishing themselves up in perfecting the art of folly and affectation, so unpretentious, and quite brave to confide it to someone whom she thought she might have hurt, was something of a novelty to him. But then, Stefan mused wryly, Miss Davis resembled none of those society misses who knew nothing but superficiality.

He also didn’t fail to notice the hurt that was imbued in that admission, and was made painfully aware of his conscience being pricked to a greater degree.

“Caroline,” he said softly, taking the liberty of calling her name without permission, and realizing dazedly at the same time how natural it felt on his lips.

Miss Davis turned up her head, only to locked gazes with him again, and realized dazedly the proximity of where they stood. In that moment then was the chance to openly observe his every feature—of how handsome was that countenance, and even more so, had it been but without its usual grimace, or the dispassion that made his eyes bereft of the radiance they ought to have, and thinking that in the short while of their acquaintance how it already etched into her memory, and would well be remembered even after leaving all the gaieties of London and be shelved again to the comforts of her home in the country.

With these thoughts swarming on her head, she asked a little breathlessly: “Yes?”

“May I call you that?”

“W-what?”

“I mean, will you allow me to call you by your first name from now on? That is, whenever it’s just the two of us, unless the circumstance requires formality.”

“Oh!”

“Well?” Lord Stokeford asked with a touch of impatience in his voice.

“Why, yes! Of course, you may. Indeed, it signifies so little, as we are friends after all.” The dark brows momentarily furrowed as she looked at him with a little apprehension. “We are friends now, aren’t we?”

“As it will all come down to that, I see no reason to object,” he replied with an affected air, deliberately hiding his amusement. “And if you’re going to consort to some impishness again, pray give me leave to box your ears!”

“Oh! If you please!” she laughed. “But you shall have my cousin to answer for!”

There was a sobering effect on Lord stokeford, and the amusement dispelled when Miss Winscott’s name was thrusted into the conversation. “It is my belief that that fellow is quite taken with her,” he said sullenly.

Sensing that there might now be an emerging jealous suitor and a brewing rivalry, Miss Davis tactfully returned: “Do you think so? I daresay Cedric is just of sweet disposition, and treats Sophie and I like his sisters. Indeed, I find his attention to her nothing beyond the bounds of a friendly regard.”

An elegant brow was raised arrogantly, he murmured: “Friendly regard, indeed.”

Miss Davis sent him a dark look. “It won’t help to be jealous you know. Some would think it unbecoming! Cedric is quite personable, I grant him that, and he is, well—,” here, she shrugged slightly, “he is a lady’s man to be sure, and can charm a hoard of dowagers with his smile—”

“Hoard?” His lips twitched at the corner upon hearing the word.

She dimpled at him. “Yes.”

“I thank you for that very constructive information about the dear Mr. Milborne, though I don’t see the necessity of drumming in me his merits,” he rejoined a little coolly while donning his gloves. “And I am not jealous.”

“Well, you look as though you are. But never mind! I’m sure I can contrive something to get Cedric out of your way!” she flashed him one of her cheeky smiles.

“Imp,” he muttered under his breath but luckily didn’t reach the lady’s ears. She reminded him of the time then, saying that she must not keep him long, remembering his lordship’s more pressing engagement, and went as far as seeing him to the door. But before he departed, in an impulse absurdly inexplicable, the Earl astonished her by taking her hand into his and kissed it gallantly.

“Well!” Miss Davis gasped and turned a pair of wide quizzing eyes on his face. There was an unusual humor lingering on it, and even a ghost of smile hovering on his lips.

“Surely you do not think me so poorly incapable on how a gentleman ought to take leave of a lady in a proper manner?” he bantered in quite a different voice, so soft it was that for a moment Miss Davis doubted it might not be his. Suddenly, she giggled at this unlikely thought, and consequently made his lordship her compliments. The remark was graciously received with a bow and, after retrieving his cane and beaver hat, the Earl took his leave in apparently excellent spirits.

When she returned to the drawing room, not a little guilty of her prolonged absence, she found Mr. Milborne looking on his reflection at the mirror above the mantelpiece while straightening his cravat with particular care, and no trace of her cousin. The moment he perceived Miss Davis, he turned a smiling countenance on her. “Ah, there you are poppet”.

“Yes, but where is Sophie?”

“I’ve invited her to drive out with me. Brought my curricle ‘round to get here, you see. Well, she’s gone upstairs to fetch her bonnet, and other trumperies you women are forever bringing with you.”

Caroline giggled. “You must know that it is forever exigent for us to bring them,” she explained.

“Well, I can never understand why the needs of women should not be boiled down to a lesser number, for I imagine it would be curst inconvenient with my carrying all of them wherever I go!”

“But you’re not a woman!”

“No! Thank God I’m not.” Mr. Milborne cast an amused eye on her and off-handedly said, “Suitor of yours, poppet? Well, you're one lucky girl, but Lor’, I've never met such a sour-faced swell in all my life!”

She bristled at this careless, and inadvertently offending, remark about Lord Stokeford.“I wish you would talk about him in a more civil language! I’ll allow he’s not amiable enough like you, but then an Earl should not compel himself if he doesn’t wish to act to someone’s expectations!”

“Easy now, Caro! Meant no offense!”

“And you mistake that he’s my suitor,” Caroline continued coldly, ignoring his sheepish smile, “for his attentions are solely fixed on Sophie.”

A shadow of disapprobation crossed his face for a fleeting moment and was gone, replaced by a feigned smile. “No! Is he, indeed? Our dear Sophie’s doing very well, eh?,” there was definitely jealously, and even a hint of distaste in his tone which did not escape her. “A titled gentleman, and plump to the purse no doubt!”

A retort was already hovering on her tongue, but Caroline bit it back as Sophie emerged from the doorway, garbed in a very becoming primrose pelisse trimmed with lace on the collar. A wide-brimmed straw bonnet was placed on her fair locks, and a parasol on her left hand, evincing her heedfulness not to be stricken with abominable freckles from the heat of the sun.

Sophie was radiance herself. The flush cheeks and the air of giddiness she seemed to emanate made Caroline wondered for a moment whether it was because of the impending drive, or the presence of Mr. Milborne. When the pair left, she slumped on the sofa and brooded over the thought. Whether or not Sophie held her long-time friend in a very special regard, there was no reckoning yet. But there was only one thing she was sure of: if romance did grow between the two, then poor Lord Stokeford would never stand a chance!

* * * * * * * * * *

Lord March, with a remarkable forbearance of riding the barouche (which he found extremely uncomfortable, but tactfully kept the objection to himself) for the last half an hour, was found in the company of her sister, Lady Charlotte Ainsley, later that morning. Bond Street was filled with fashionable people, sauntering and visiting shops to satisfy every whim and vanity. These insignificant proceedings afforded the Viscount a diversion from the endless monologue of her sister's upcoming ball next month; in one instance, he surreptitiously quizzed an unknown middle-aged lady who was wearing a ridiculous purple hat stuck with voluminous plum— no doubt of a dozen unfortunate ostriches.

He averted his eyes away from the offending bonnet, only to encounter a more interesting sight just a few yards across from their vehicle. Why, it was the fair Miss Winscott, ensconced in a curricle with an unknown gentleman! While the identity of this beaux was still in question, (which could be dealt with eventually) Lord March could only commend the manner in which the gentleman dressed, and noted wryly that there was nothing to repine on that smiling countenance—he was in fact a handsome blade.

"Well, well. This is certainly news," he muttered softly, bearing in mind to visit Stefan for the sole reason of imparting this discovery.

Lady Ainsley, who was now midway through her recital of names and titles of numerous personages that would likely be present at the ball, broke into her own discourse to reprove her inattentive brother: "I must say, Robert, you are not at all attending!"

"Hmm? Oh! Beg your pardon, m'dear. Mind's wandering," he simply explained.

“Apparently! Have you seen a friend of yours?” He nodded, and her ladyship continued with an amused voice, “Well, I hope it’s not a female friend that made you frown so.”

“But you are an acute observer, my dear. Allow me to compliment you for guessing it right!” he quipped.

Her ladyship laughed and shook her head. “You mistake, dearest, for I was not at all guessing: I just knew it.” After a slight pause, she added pensively: “I wish you would consider marrying soon, Robert.”

“Now, that's a rather underhanded way of getting rid of me!” Lord March feigned a pained look and put a hand on his heart, but his gray eyes were alight with humor.

“Don’t be such a tease! Of course I’m not going to get rid of you; I am merely hinting my desire for an addition to our family! And besides, you’re not too young, you know, and I daresay you are not indifferent to women, unlike your friend Stokeford."

"I have it in best authority, Lotte, that Stefan's not entirely indifferent to your sex," confided his brother positively.

Lady Ainsley looked dubious for a moment. "Well, it's true then, that he's dangling after the lovely Sophia Winscott?"

Her brother chuckled. "Lord, I would never imagine him dangling after someone! But if you prefer to put it that way, yes."

"How unlikely, to be sure! And— oh! That puts me in mind of something! His cousin, that is, the young Mr. Beaumont."

"Laurie?" Lord March shifted on the seat with a grunt of discomfort. "Well, what about him?"

"Oh, only the most shocking thing! I've heard this from Miss Penningbrooke," seeing his brother rolled his eyes, she grinned, making her likeness to Robert suddenly apparent. "I know! She's the most insufferable busybody in all London! But well, it seems that she has all the delicious gossips tucked in her reticule!" she giggled, more like a chit just out of schoolroom than a mother at eight and twenty. "Now, about Mr. Beaumont! Well, Robert, from what I've heard, your young friend was seen last Thursday night in the Vauxhall, and with that Mrs. Trisham on his arm!"

Mrs. Trisham, from what Lord March recollected, was a wicked and vulgar (the words of his other sister, Dianna) widow who was forever seen in the company with handsome, and often very young gentlemen. "As though she is not a day short of thirty!" his younger sibling had said, in tones of plain disgust.

"It seems to me," the Viscount replied, frowning over this new piece of information,"that our young buck is in for some larks."

"Pray, tell Stokeford to mind what company his young cousin keeps, Robert!" begged Lady Ainsley. "I'm sure he would not be altogether pleased!"

"No," her brother answered wryly. "Ten to one he wouldn't."

Thus, the afternoon saw Lord Robert strolling the expanse of Upper Brook Street with tidings he had gathered on that dragging morning spent in a vehicle he decided to detest. For someone who was to impart a rather disturbing— if not unwelcoming— intelligence, the Viscount appeared to be coolheaded, and actually looked forward at the task ahead.

Upon arriving at the Stokeford's townhouse, the door was opened for him by a slightly perturbed Mr Philips, whose usual self-possession was legendary to all the visitors of my lord Stokeford. Lord March, always perceptive, noticed this, and remarked: "Well, old chap? What's making your mighty cool head ruffle, eh?"

"My lord," the butler bowed and divested him of his gloves, hat and cane, but politely chose not to respond to the question. "His lordship is presently in the drawing room, and is— "

"Yes, well, you need not to announce me," came the cheerful reply of the Viscount, who was now advancing toward the direction of the drawing room.

Mr Philips caught up with him with alacrity, and said hesitantly, "Pardon me, my lord, but may I just tell your lordship that his lordship--"

"Is in the drawing room," cut in the incorrigible nobleman. "Which, if my memory serves, is the first door to the left of that hall."

"You are, of course, correct, my lord, but I must say— "

He was already waving a hand dismissively, and so the butler, completely abandoning what he had been meaning to convey, only bowed and sighed at the nobleman's retreating back.

"I say, Stefan," began the errant Viscount without so much as preamble while crossing the threshold, "Old Philips seems a bit on edge today, hovering at me like a damned bee—," The rest of the complaint lodged at the poor Mr. Philips was destined to be unheard, for Lord March abruptly stopped on his track, his jaw dropped at the sight that greeted him.

Lord Stokeford was standing by the window, his countenance taunt and blue eyes frowning at the beautiful lady in an elegant gauze gown of gold and black, placidly sitting on the sofa. A teacup was poised on her smiling lips as she eyed the Viscount, whose own alarmed gaze darted to and fro.

"Well, Robert," said the Countess of Stokeford with an ill-concealed amusement, "You're just in time for tea. "

A/N: Apologies again for the very late update! And thank you so much for bearing with me. There's more of Caroline and Stefan coming, and I promise to update as regularly as my time (and my imagination, for that matter) permits. In the meantime, I hope you enjoy this new Chapter! x