A Sense of Propriety

Chapter 27

"How many more bags must still be loaded, Martha?" Lady Mayfield questioned as she rested in the drawing room, her injured leg elevated and travelling dress draping elegantly about her person.

"Only a few more, m'lady."

"Excellent, we must leave now while there is a respite in the weather. I hate travelling in the rain."

The old maid bowed her head in acknowledgement and moved from the room, leaving the Dowager Countess to stare at the paper in her hands, which she had received from her son. He had made a new acquaintance while at the Midrake ball and had called on him for a visitation.

That was surprising in itself

With his extended stay, she had asked him to enquire what may have happened to his cousin. The groom that she had sent had found nothing more than she already knew, and the lack of knowledge on what Cordelia failed to remember made her extremely uneasy.

Still pondering over the recent events, Lady Mayfield was jarred from her thoughts abruptly by a pounding fist on the front door. She glanced towards the entrance hall with a frown before realization dawned on her. Then her lips thinned into a tight line and she rose from her chair.

The loud knocking continued as she made her way into the entrance hall and noticed the butler reach for the door.

"Remain precisely where you are," she told him firmly, causing the older man to look at her in surprise as she approached the door.

Never once was a lady expected to answer the door. Propriety demanded it. For Her Ladyship to request him not to answer, made him gawk at her in astonishment. But one look at her livid expression revealed to him the severity of the situation, and he bowed before backing away from the door. Lady Mayfield opened the door with a strong jerk, forcing the knocking to cease instantly as she gazed upon the frightfully dishevelled Marquis of Midrake.

He had no hat on his head, causing his dark locks to curl in unruly tangles due to the recent rain. Thick dried mud caked his boots and dirty water splashes marred the once-expensive fabric of his shirt and coat.

All in all, he hardly looked like the Marquis of Midrake.

He blinked, his lips parting as he took note of the unexpected face that met him at the door.

"Lady Mayfield," he stated blankly, at a complete loss for words.

Her expression was stone cold, her shoulders unforgivingly tense as she leaned on her walking cane. "I believe that is my name," she stated without even the slightest hint of humour.

The coldness in her voice jolted the Marquis from his shock, and he cleared his throat as he looked over her head and into the entrance hall of her home. "I need to speak to Miss Sutton."

Lady Mayfield's eyes hardened into pure onyx. "She is not available at present."

She moved as if to close the door on him, but he braced one hand against the hardwood quickly to prohibit the action. "Please, I need to speak to her," he stated, his voice growing urgent.

"And do you think that she needs to speak to you?"

The look of contempt on her face made him lower his gaze. "I . . . was not aware that she was in a state of . . . distress."

The Countess raised her chin indignantly. "Do you honestly take me for a fool, Lord Midrake? Do you? Any man with the slightest sense of propriety would have noticed that she had been incapacitated and would have behaved differently to you. And do not pretend that I did not notice the bruising on her arm, no doubt from when you dragged her outside to be thrown into a carriage. Why should I let such a man be near my niece only to humiliate her further?"