To England, With Love

Chapter IV: What to Expect, When Expecting the Ton

Hey guys! This chapter is dedicated to @haleybri123💋💋💋.

Without further ado....
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The Chatsworth House ~ September 1818

The Duke of Devonshire shifted his cravat once more, easily in annoyance.

"Where the blasted hell was Lord Wilton's brat?"

He had given Mr. Casterly specific instructions to have her within the brunch hall by ten o'clock sharp.

Duke Devonshire coolly pulled out his pocket watch, poorly receiving that it, was almost quarter pass ten; he looked up and smiled tersely at the Baroness of Cumberland who threw him a flirty smile as she flitted pass him in an assault of excessive rose water and petty-coats.

He wondered a bit bemusedly if the much fabled, Miss Wilton knew that she was in the home of a weary Duke with admirable levels of work to accomplish.

Most of London's esteemed society had been invited to the brunch honouring and welcoming the infamous Lord Wilton's daughter and apparent heiress. And even though the Duke's world-renowned Great Dining Room was to be the venue of the debutante brunch; decorated to the hilt with blood red walls, tapestries and carpets as well as portraits and paintings of Devonshire earls, dukes and duchesses who have passed on; where adequate platform of delectable dishes had been served atop Belgian class mahogany tables with an option to rest on gold plated chairs were extended to the esteemed of the country, the Duke could tell that his guests were conducting themselves in a most immature anticipation to see the heiress of the Lord that was completely notorious and feared in his profession of privateering, and had went about his actions so illegally that he had gotten himself killed.

Lennox smiled to himself. His friend had certainly concurred up quite an elaborate scandal on his own behalf. Following in the trail his thoughts seemingly preferred to lead him onto, Lennox smiled even more broadly when he remembered that the lovechild of the Lord and his wife was indeed a mulatto. The ton would have scandal to last them a score and a lifetime and if the bloody wench had naught been keeping half the ton waiting, he would have felt the most sympathy he had ever felt in years, just for her.

None-the-less, Lennox had undoubtedly chosen to honour his friend's will to the best of his ability. He would be a guardian to the girl of seven and a decade until she was firmly placed onto the shelf, as her father had stipulated; she could then go on to the British Isles, run her father's empire (backed by plethoric, yet sturdy documents supporting her claim to his fortune) and have a gentleman court her there where they would be slightly more forgiving on the tender issue of her age and colour.

The heiress of the Berry Pomeroy barony approached Lennox with a seductive smile and a cognac-coloured engagement ring on her marriage tendon. He did naught even bother plaguing himself with the thoughts of whether or naught the peculiar yet bold hue of the ring agreed with her pale countenance.

As she neared him, he felt his hands being grabbed and nestled against the muslin-flat of her stomach.

"My Lord," she began, "What has you smiling so?" A knowing smile coiled on her face; as if she thought the reason being for his smile was as a result of her presence.

Lennox felt himself scowl again, he was obviously not amused by her. He had to, at the very least, let her know that.

"Tis not your presence that has me amused." He began rather coldly while smiling all the same. He looked down briefly before raising a perfectly arched eyebrow at her in disbelief at their joint hands even in a public event setting.