The heat alternatively scorching and cooling his legs. The clock ticked upwards to the hour and with each passing second he grew tenser. Lady India was nowhere to be seen. After arriving at Grasswood Park she and her exotic maid had cast him a venomous sort of look, and then gone off God knew where. Giddings, his butler, ensured him that she would be down for dinner, but that was a half hour ago, and Bartholomew could count on nothing where his flighty fiancée was concerned. It was just as likely that she’d packed her bags and fled to Cheetham Hall, her own residence. “Damn it, India,” he hissed to the flames. “My Lord?” He turned to see Giddings directing the servants to move around some of the silver wear. They’d set far too many places and Bartholomew wondered what they were about. “You know it is just Lady India and myself for dinner?” he asked. Giddings cast him a disapproving sort of look. “We want to ensure Lady India sees the room in its full glory,” he said.
