A Scandal By Any Other Name-Chapter 45 - Forty Five

Lady Farrington sat on the main sofa, her silk skirts spread out like a royal canopy. Beside her sat Lady Celine, looking like a breath of spring in her blue muslin.

Opposite them sat Rowan, the Duke of Ford. He looked dashing, composed, and entirely at ease.

And in the corner, seated in a high-backed wing chair that offered a strategic view of the entire room, sat Delaney Kingsley.

She had opened her notebook. She held her quill poised over the paper. She was not smiling. She was not frowning. She was a statue of serious detachment.

Since the incident in the carriage, Delaney had locked her heart away in a steel box. She had a serious conversation with herself. She was here to earn sixty thousand pounds. She was here to execute a contract.

"The tea is delightful, Lady Farrington," Rowan said smoothly. He lifted the cup to his lips, took a small sip, and set it back on the saucer with a gentle clink.

"It is a special blend," Lady Farrington replied, beaming. "My brother sends it from India. I am pleased it suits your taste, Your Grace."

"It is exceptional," Rowan agreed. He leaned forward slightly, turning the full force of his charm onto the mother. "But I must say, the company is far superior to the beverage."

Lady Farrington fluttered her fan. "Oh, Your Grace. You flatter an old woman."

"I speak only the truth," Rowan said.

Delaney wrote in her notebook.

Subject: The Mother.

Action: Flattery Deployed.

Result: Highly effective. The target is charmed.

She kept her head down. She did not look at Rowan. She focused on the ink drying on the page.

Rowan turned his attention to Celine. This was the critical part. He had won the gatekeeper; now he had to court the prize.

"And you, Lady Celine," Rowan said softly. "I trust you recovered well from last night’s festivities? The rooms were... stiflingly crowded. I worried the heat might have been too much for you."

It was a perfect line. It showed concern. It showed he had been paying attention to her physical well-being.

Celine blushed. She lowered her eyes demurely, then looked back up through her lashes.

"It was warm, certainly," Celine replied. Her voice was light and musical. "But the music was spirited enough to make one forget the temperature. I barely noticed the heat while we were waltzing."

"Indeed," Rowan said. "Though I found the conversation far superior to the orchestra."

Celine giggled. It was a soft, polite sound.

"You are too kind, Your Grace," she said.

Rowan smiled at her. It was a polite, handsome smile.

Then, he did something he shouldn’t have done.

He looked away from Celine. He looked across the room. He looked at the wing chair in the corner.

He looked at Delaney.

His eyes sought hers for a split second. It was a reflex. He wanted to share the moment. He wanted to see her roll her eyes. He wanted to see if she approved. He wanted... connection or at least a reaction.

Delaney did not look up. She felt his gaze burning into the side of her face, but she refused to acknowledge it.

Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.

She wrote in her notebook:

Subject: The Debutante.

Action: Giggling

Note: Pitch is acceptable. Not Shrill.

Rowan’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second. He saw the top of her dark head. He saw the furious movement of her pen. She was treating him like a laboratory experiment.

He felt a pang of annoyance, mixed with a strange disappointment. He turned back to the ladies.

Lady Farrington, however, had not missed the exchange.

She was sipping her tea, her eyes sharp over the rim of the cup. She saw the Duke glance at his cousin. It wasn’t a casual glance. It was a searching glance. It was the look of a man seeking an anchor.

And she saw the cousin ignore him completely, focused entirely on that mysterious leather book.

"Tell me, Miss Kingsley," Lady Farrington said suddenly. Her voice cut through the polite air. "You seem quite engrossed in your writing. Are you sketching the room?"

The room went silent.

Rowan stiffened. He looked at Delaney, worried she might panic.

Delaney stopped writing. She looked up slowly. Her face was calm. Her hazel eyes were blank.

"No, My Lady," Delaney replied smoothly. "I am writing a letter to my... elderly aunt in the North. She is bedridden. I promised to describe the beautiful interiors of the London houses I visit. She lives vicariously through my descriptions."

It was a lie. A perfect, professional lie.

"How sweet," Celine cooed. "That is so thoughtful."

"Indeed," Lady Farrington said. She didn’t look convinced. "You must have a very detailed memory. You have been writing non-stop since you arrived."

"I like to be thorough," Delaney said simply. She closed the notebook and placed it on her lap. "But I apologize if my scratching has disturbed the conversation. I shall desist."

"Not at all," Rowan interjected quickly. He needed to divert the attention. "My cousin is a writer at heart. But tell me, Lady Farrington, do you intend to visit the park today? The weather is uncommonly fine."

He leaned back, adopting a casual pose. This was the next step on the list. The Setup.

Lady Farrington turned back to the Duke, distraction successful.

"We had not planned on it," she lied. Everyone planned on it. "Though Celine does need fresh air after the crowded ballroom."

Celine looked up, sensing her cue.

"I believe the air is best near the Serpentine this time of day," Celine said boldly. "The ducks are quite diverting."

Rowan held her gaze.

"I find that a high-perch phaeton, if driven by a steady hand, is the best way to see the Serpentine," Rowan said. His voice dropped an octave, becoming low and intimate. "I intend to drive mine through the park at two o’clock. Perhaps... I might see you there?"

Celine’s breath hitched.