The Luckiest Lady In London Read Free Page B

months to come?”
    Mr. Pitt cleared his throat with flustered happiness. “As a matter of fact, I have. I have been going over some records.The current atmospheric conditions, I believe, combined with . . .”
    “What is this? A session at the Royal Society? Did I stumble upon the wrong gathering? But lo and behold, Miss Cantwell, it is you. Why do you let fellows bore you with such trivia? Who gives a tuppence for atmospheric conditions?”
    Mr. Pitt shrank promptly before this onslaught of delighted ignorance. Louisa groaned inwardly. But it wouldn’t do to openly offend Mr. Drummond. He was, incomprehensibly enough, one of the so-called “arbiters” of Society, presumably because everyone cringed to be on the receiving end of his ostentatious rudeness.
    “Mr. Drummond,” she acknowledged him with unexceptional cordiality. “We are having a discussion on the weather and Mr. Pitt was just about to give us some very informative—”
    If she had hoped to subtly chastise him, she failed utterly, for he interrupted her, too. “I say why talk if you can’t do anything about it.”
    Poor Mr. Pitt was now flame red. Louisa gritted her teeth. Mr. Drummond didn’t so much court her as he displayed before her his skills at the game of courtship. And to everyone’s detriment, he was of the belief that to make himself appear superior, others must suffer in comparison.
    “Well, I for one do believe there is intrinsic value to the study of meteorology,” said an unfamiliar voice somewhere to Louisa’s right.
    Interestingly, Mr. Drummond, instead of dispensing with yet another one of his acerbic remarks, accepted this rebuff without any protestation. “Oh, if you say so, Wren.”
    Wren? Could it be . . .
    Mr. Pitt exhaled with relief. “Thank you, my lord Wrenworth.”
    The Ideal Gentleman, in the flesh. To say that he wouldmake an excellent husband for Louisa was analogous to declaring that a Thoroughbred stallion qualified as a four-legged beast of burden. His income was in excess of two hundred thousand pounds a year. In addition to that staggering wealth, he possessed good looks, charisma, athleticism, and tact. Not to mention that his character was so far above reproach that reproach would need a telescope to observe his universally lauded conduct.
    Prince Charming, absolutely. The Holy Grail, almost.
    Louisa had not been in a particular hurry to meet the marquess—a sensible woman who could afford only a gig did not spend her days dreaming of barouches. But now that Lord Wrenworth was in her vicinity, she was not going to pass on a detailed survey of this paragon of masculine virtues.
    She would, however, be discreet about it. Lowering her eyes, she started from his shoes.
    They had seen at least two Seasons, possibly three. Yet they did not appear worn, only comfortable. The leather, shined and buffed to a high sheen, was as supple and luxurious as a courtesan’s caress.
    In contrast, Mr. Pitt’s spanking-new evening pumps looked as if they pinched his toes
and
chafed the backs of his ankles.
    Her gaze traveled up Lord Wrenworth’s expertly pressed trousers to the flute of champagne at his side, dangling from his fingers. Many of the guests at the ball had such crystalware in their hands—Lady Tenwhestle, for one, held hers decorously before her person; Mr. Drummond, for another, idly turned his round and round. Lord Wrenworth’s champagne glass, however, gave the impression that it had leaped off a table of its own will into his hand, because it would never fit better elsewhere, or emanate a quarter so much ease and aplomb.
    On that same hand he wore a signet ring, a coat of arms engraved upon a crest of deep, rich carnelian. The white cuff of his shirt extended a perfect quarter inch beyond the darksleeve of his evening jacket. The cuff links were simple gold studs—or perhaps not so simple studs, for she could see lines and patterns, too fine for her to make out the design from where she stood.
    She was