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nakedness whilst maintaining his reputation as a gentleman. Miss Conley, would you mind very much putting those away?
    A commotion by the door rescued him from needing to say anything at all. “Kiss her,” Steepleton directed Lord Scotherby, pointing at Cousin Fanny. “Mariah—that is, Mrs. Fawcett —will understand.”
    Mariah troubled herself to glance over her shoulder. She instantly dismissed the sight of her paramour and Cousin Fanny pressed together in the doorframe, preferring to slide her eyes in cat-like fascination toward Grantham. “Christmas cheer comes once a year,” she drawled, “and I have my sights set on Chelford.”
     

 

Chapter Five

     
    ELINOR COULD barely control her excitement as she walked through the long, wainscoted hallway on Grantham’s arm. Sconces burned brightly every few feet, casting more than enough light to reflect off Mrs. Fawcett’s emerald silk gown and catch in Miss Bennett’s lustrous crown of curls. Elinor had never dreamed of such splendidly turned-out ladies. Even Cousin Fanny, with her funny cockney phrases, swayed serenely on Lord de Winter’s arm.
    They were all a delight, and she was enchanted. “How do you know them?” she asked Grantham. But then, wasn’t that a silly question? He’d been born into their glittering, haughty world.
    “I should have expected you to ask that. Curious little thing, aren’t you?”
    She eyed him from beneath her lashes. “It’s just that I’ve never seen such grandeur as their gowns. Was Mrs. Fawcett’s husband terribly rich?”
    “Mrs. Fawcett has her own money. Not that we should speak of such things.” He slanted a glance at Elinor.
    Her face heated. Of course it was ill-mannered to speculate on a dead man’s fortune. Or anyone’s fortune.
    Suddenly she remembered Grantham had twenty thousand a year. Good heavens. Given her indelicate interest in Mrs. Fawcett’s wealth, he could easily suspect her to be a fortune hunter, when in truth she’d had no idea of his riches until today.
    “I envy Mrs. Fawcett, then,” Elinor said with a wistful sigh, attempting to refashion Grantham’s opinion of her character. “Secure in her own means, no one can ever call her an opportunist.”
    Grantham coughed hoarsely. He thumped his chest a few times then wiped at his eyes, which had gone watery. When he tried to talk, his voice rasped out.
    She reached with her free hand as if to touch his brow. “Are you feeling unwell?”
    He jerked away from her fingertips. “Just a tickle.” He coughed again. “Mrs. Fawcett wasn’t precisely pleasant to you earlier. Why the admiration?”
    Elinor drew back sharply. “Wasn’t she, though?”
    He gave her a thoughtful once-over. “I think you must be wonderfully naïve, Miss Conley.”
    He looked as if he’d say more, but the double doors of the dining room stood open before them. Everyone else had already taken their seats.
    When she realized she was to be placed beside him near the head of the table, she almost swooned. But as the salads were brought out and the wine poured liberally into goblets set amid boughs of holly, it became clear there would be no more private talk between them.
    There were simply too many others to address. All at once, it seemed. “Miss Pearson, where are you from?” she was asked from down the length of the table.
    “Have you any money?” someone fired across.
    “Will you be searched for?” another wondered aloud.
    They hardly left her time to think, let alone answer. As her head became muddled with wine, the questions became more personal, and she struggled to keep up with the swiftly changing stream of conversation.
    “Have you been to London?”
    “Do you know any reels?”
    “Are you engaged?”
    “May I see you under the kissing ball?”
    She blinked. That nonsense was from Lord Steepleton, the last man she’d consider setting her lips to. But as she narrowed her eyes on him, he only laughed and leaned to whisper something in Mrs.