The Secrets Of Lord Lynford. Bronwyn Scott

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       Chapter Three

      Eliza studied Lynford, seeing his gambit all too clearly now. ‘Is this revenge, Lord Lynford?’

      He grinned, mischief lighting his eyes. ‘This is just business, Mrs Blaxland. Something akin to unplanned visits, I am sure you understand.’ He relieved her of her empty glass and deposited it on a passing tray with his before offering his arm. ‘I would like to introduce you to a few of the board members, some of our parents whose sons will perform tonight and our other donors.’

      ‘You need a hostess,’ Eliza quickly deduced. It was a large request that looked much smaller when compared to giving a speech. Perhaps he’d planned it that way, knowing she’d be less likely to refuse. She’d often used that same strategy with her shareholders when asking for an approval of funds.

      ‘Mr Kitto’s wife, Rosenwyn, was to play hostess, but she’s indisposed,’ Lynford explained with a melting smile. ‘These events need a woman’s presence to smooth out conversations between strangers.’ She’d not meant to draw attention to herself tonight. Playing hostess and making a speech would put her at the centre of the festivities. Still, she could turn this to her benefit. His introductions would pave the way for other discussions she wanted to have later about schools for the miners’ children. She caught sight of Cador Kitto’s blond head, a trail of students behind him with instruments, and her pulse sped up. It was almost time for the programme, almost time for her speech.

      She was going to make Lynford pay for this.

      ‘Shall we?’ Lynford steered her towards the front of the room where the new students and Kitto were settling into position.

      ‘Are you sure there isn’t someone else who should speak?’ She tried to avoid it one last time. ‘Perhaps Mr Burke?’ He’d been a pleasant, well-spoken man in the last group they’d visited and another generous benefactor of the school.

      Lynford shook his head and gave her one of his disarming smiles. He’d been using them liberally tonight with the guests, but that made them no less effective. ‘No, I want you to do it.’ She knew what that meant: an ambush for an ambush. He covered her gloved hand where it lay on his sleeve and gave it a conspiratorial squeeze. ‘You will do wonderfully.’ He leaned in, giving her a teasing whiff of clean, autumn male, the woodsy scent of English oak mixed with the sweeter note of hazelnut. Good lord, that scent was intoxicating. It reminded her of strength, of bonfires beneath starry skies when she was younger, when she didn’t carry the world on her shoulders, when autumn was a time to laugh and dream. His voice was a husky whisper at her ear, a tone better reserved for the bedroom. ‘I have every confidence in you. You are not a woman who knows how to fail, Mrs Blaxland.’ Then he slipped away from her, his long strides taking him to the front of the room, the very presence of him compelling people to quiet their conversations, to find a seat and anticipate what came next.

      She envied him his confidence, the ease with which it was assumed whereas hers was a hard-earned façade; once acquired, she had dared not lay it down for fear she might never be able to pick it up again. This was not the life Huntingdon had imagined for her, but this was the life she had, the life she’d chosen out of necessity.

      At twenty-eight, she’d gone from running their home to running a mining empire, from sponsoring parties to sponsoring schools and other educational causes. If there was one thing the past five years had taught her, it was that education was everything. She’d transitioned into her husband’s position only because she’d had the skills to do it. She could read, she could write, she could do sums, she could keep a ledger and myriad other things. She could think critically and she’d spent her marriage listening, learning and planning ahead against the inevitable: an eighteen-year-old bride would doubtless outlive her fifty-five-year-old husband. The majority of her life would be spent in widowhood. The only question was when it would happen and what she’d do about it.

      That foresight had stood her in good stead. If this life was not the one imagined for her, it was a far better one than what she would have had. Without those skills, she would have been passed from relative to relative; her husband’s legacy, his mines and her daughter Sophie’s inheritance would have been taken out of her hands and put into the care of an apathetic male relative. She’d seen it happen to women around her, women like her mother, who lost everything when their husbands died, even the very control of their own lives. When Huntingdon had died, she’d reaffirmed her vow that would not happen to her. She would secure her freedom at all costs and her daughter’s, too. Now that she had, she would see to it that others had the opportunity to develop the same skills.

      Lynford finished speaking and gestured that she should come forward. She rose and smoothed her skirts, her head high. She wouldn’t let anyone see how this unnerved her. Lynford was right. She didn’t know how to fail. She knew how to fight. That gave them something in common. He no more wanted to see her fail in this speech than she’d wanted him to fail in having the school ready. It occurred to her, as she stood before the guests, that she and Lynford were compatriots whether they wanted to be or not. Philanthropy, like politics, made for strange bedfellows indeed.