“Pardon me, my lord. Your hand should be at my throat—if—you are offended.”
The husband still had a firm hold of Marmaduke Thibthorp, and was looking at him as though undecided whether it would be dignified to drop the fop down the stairs. The aristocratic apathy in him triumphed. He swept the youth aside, and with a curt bow to his wife, offered her his arm.
“Come. Madam, I wish you a boisterous evening.”
His young wife had hesitated, with a whimsical grimace in the direction of Hortense.
“Oh, what a sermon!”
The Italian’s eyes met those of Lord Dacre. It was as though they challenged each other in their influence over the child.
“If my Lord Dacre will stay with us, I myself will put on the scarf. And perhaps my Lord Gore—here—”
The leviathan bowed.
“I will flounder—most biblically.”
The Lady Anne giggled, and then glanced furtively at her husband’s face.