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forgive him for it, now that he was the Earl of Westcott. No. There must be something else that made him unacceptable. But what on earth could it be?
    “I am quite content,” Lucy finally answered the older woman. “I have my books and my correspondents. I fear I am far too set in my own ways to ever accommodate myself to a man’s ways.”
    Lady Westcott studied her another long moment. Had she been younger, or a woman of lesser consequence, the lengthy perusal would have been deemed rude in the extreme. As it was, it made Lucy decidedly uncomfortable, a condition she was not accustomed to and did not enjoy.
    It took Lucy’s mother and her compulsive need to always keep conversations running smoothly to shift the focus away from Lucy. “Lady Westcott,” she ventured, no doubt at the urging of Graham. “If I might be so bold as to suggest, my eldest granddaughter, Miss Prudence Drysdale, though still in the schoolroom, is a most accomplished musician. Would you like her to play for you—ah, for us—I mean for this most esteemed company—”
    She broke off when Lady Westcott gave a negligent wave of her hand. “By all means. Have the girl play.”
    But as the party settled themselves, Lucy was distinctly aware of Lady Westcott’s continued scrutiny.
    Lucy sat down in an armless chair positioned near the children so that she could monitor their behavior while Prudence played. In the end, however, she did far more squirming and shifting than did the four younger Drysdales. By the time Prudence’s easy version of a popular air for minuets was finished and the five children were dismissed to take their tea separately from their elders, Lucy decided she had never met so powerful a personality as Antonia Thornton, Dowager Countess of Westcott.
    “Lady Westcott is an old friend,” Lady Fordham said by way of resuming the conversation. She signaled the maid to place the tea service before her.
    “Yes, a very old friend,” the venerable old dame echoed. “Old enough to be excused a few eccentricities, eh, Gladys?”
    “Why of course, dear—”
    “Then you will not mind if I ask Miss Drysdale to pour. Miss Lucy Drysdale,” she clarified when Graham leaned forward expectantly.
    Lucy repressed her annoyance with her pompous brother. As if a matriarch like Lady Westcott would ask a girl from the schoolroom to pour! Poor Prudence would not last two minutes under Lady Westcott’s fearsome gaze.
    “Shall I?” Lucy directed this to Lady Fordham.
    “Why … Why, of course, my dear. Of course. Please do,” she answered. But the confusion on her face was obvious, as it was on Graham’s and Hortense’s. Lucy’s mother, however, had swiftly grasped the import of the dowager countess’s request, and her round face beamed with approval. She’d long ago given up matchmaking her only daughter. In one fell swoop, however, the dowager countess had revived all those hopes.
    Lucy did not know what to think. She’d hoped to find a boon companion in Lady Westcott, an intelligent conversationalist with an interest beyond the weather, fashion, gossip, and children. She’d not expected the sort of pointed interest she was receiving.
    She poured the tea, assisted by the maid who handed round the cups and plates of biscuits. Lady Fordham made small talk, about her grandson’s trip abroad, and the new variety of Chinese roses that were lately all the rage.
    Graham tried to engage Lord Fordham in conversation about a local court case involving a son stealing his own father’s horse, but it was quite a waste of effort. Lord Fordham rarely said a word while in the company of ladies. Between his silence and Lady Westcott’s, it became more and more difficult for Lady Fordham to carry the conversation. Hortense, true to form, was so intimidated by Lady Westcott that beyond the required words of greeting, she’d clammed up. Lucy’s mother, normally quite verbose, only stared expectantly at Lucy, apparently struck dumb by visions of