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The woman considered the proposed position. “I shall obstruct everyone.”

“They will manage. I have seen most of them negotiate a supper table.”

The old woman laughed and allowed him to escort her to the chair. He waited until she was settled, thanked the footman, and stooped to hear one last instruction, while Lydia watched him over the rim of her glass. He had listened without making the woman feel troublesome and solved her difficulty without turning competence into a performance. The reserve Lydia had met on the doorstep was nowhere in evidence. Apparently, he kept his warmth for people who expected nothing personal from it.

Before she could decide what to make of that, another guest caught his attention. He greeted the man warmly and moved on. She wondered what he would do with a question he could not solve by moving a chair.

“Lady Lydia?”

A gentleman stood beside her mother. He was dark-haired and neatly dressed, with an expression suggesting he would wait comfortably while she returned her thoughts to the room.

“May I present Mr. Harrington?” her mother said.

He bowed. “Your brother tells me you draw.”

“Plants, mostly.”

“Then I must confess an ignorance before we go further. I know what grows in our garden chiefly by what the gardener tells me I have stepped on.”

She smiled. “That is one way to learn.”

“An expensive one, apparently. Some of the smallest plants inspire the greatest indignation.”

“Was it a bed you were supposed to be walking through?”

“No.”

“Then I fear I agree with your gardener.”

“So did my father.” He bowed his head to the verdict.

Mr. Harrington accepted the judgment readily and asked whether she preferred drawing from living specimens or from books. She answered at greater length than she intended. A question about color followed, proving he had listened, and Lydia relaxed into the pleasure of a conversation. Too often, interest in her drawings had turned out to be a polite way into another subject.

When he asked her to dance, she accepted. Mr. Harrington danced with quiet competence. He noticed when she could not hear him over the music and did not pull her closer to repeat himself but patiently waited until the steps brought them together again It was a small restraint. She noticed that too.

That restraint mattered more because Lydia knew how easily a man could turn courtesy into control. Mr. Harrington did not fill every silence, he listened with genuine interest, never pressing for an intimacy she had not invited, or ask questions merely to wait for his own turn to speak. He left her room to answer as she pleased. Lydia found herself relaxing in his company. She could speak freely of her interests and hopes for the future, without feeling the need to defend them. It was precisely the sort of easy companionship she had always imagined wanting in a husband. She could find no fault with him, which made it all the more irritating that she should be thinking of another.

As they turned, she found Tristan near the door, watching the dancers. For one beat she thought he was watching her. Then someone spoke to him and the moment closed. She returned her attention to Mr. Harrington, who was asking whether she would remain in the country long.

“Only a little longer. We return to London after the visit.”

“I hope I shall have the pleasure of seeing you there.”

“I expect our families will meet.”

He smiled at the cautious answer. “I shall look forward to it.”

When he returned her to her mother, Lydia meant to remain seated for a while. Her feet were beginning to object to the shoes she had defended so firmly upstairs. She had scarcely reached a chair when the Dowager Duchess approached with another gentleman. “Lady Lydia, you must meet the Duke of Dunhaven.”

He bowed. There was a gentleness in his expression which softened the introduction. “Lady Lydia.”

“Your Grace.”

“Dunhaven is an old friend of my son’s,” the Dowager Duchess said.

Lydia resisted the impulse to look for Tristan. “How do you do?”

“Very well, thank you. I hope you are enjoying Ashcombe.”