A Royal Pain Read Online Free Page B

readjusted the cape so that the clip was no longer digging into my neck as we reached the entrance of the grill.
    “You have a reservation, miss?” the maitre d’ asked.
    “I’m Belinda Warburton-Stoke and I’m here to lunch with Lady Georgiana Rannoch,” Belinda said sweetly as money passed discreetly from her hand to his, “and I’m terribly afraid that we have no reservation . . . but I’m sure you’ll be an absolute angel and find us a little corner somewhere. . . .”
    “Welcome, my lady. This is indeed an honor.” He bowed to me and escorted us to a delightful table for two. “I will send the chef out to give you his recommendations.”
    “I must say it is useful to have a name,” I said as we were seated.
    “You should make use of it more often. You could probably get credit anywhere you wanted, for example.”
    “Oh no, I’m not going into debt. You know our family motto—Death Before Dishonor.”
    “There’s nothing dishonorable about debt,” Belinda said.
    “Think of the death duties your brother was saddled with when your father shot himself.”
    “Ah, but he sold off half the estate, the family silver and our property in Sutherland to pay them off.”
    “How boringly noble of him. I’m glad I’m just landed gentry and not aristocracy. It comes with less weight of ancestors’ expectations. My great-great-grandfather was in trade, of course. Your crowd would have nothing to do with him, even though he could buy the lot of ’em. Anyway, I quite enjoy the vices of the lower classes—and speaking of vices, you never did tell me . . .”
    “About what?”
    “Your virginity, darling. I do hope you have finally done something to rid yourself of it. Such a burden.”
    Unfortunately blushes really show on my fair skin.
    “You have finally done it, haven’t you?” she went on in her loud bell-like tones, eliciting fascinated stares from all the surrounding tables. “Don’t tell me you haven’t! Georgie, what’s the matter with you? Especially when you have someone who is ready, willing and oh so very able.”
    The poor young man who was busy pouring water into our glasses almost dropped the jug.
    “Belinda,” I hissed.
    “I take it that the rakish Darcy O’Mara is still in the picture?”
    “He’s not, actually.”
    “Oh no. What happened? You two seemed so awfully chummy last time I saw you.”
    “We didn’t have a row or anything. It’s just that he’s disappeared. Not long after the infamous house party. He just didn’t call anymore and I’ve no idea where he’s gone.”
    “Didn’t you go and look him up?”
    “I couldn’t do that. If he doesn’t want me, then I’m not about to throw myself at him.”
    “I would. He’s definitely one of the most interesting men in London. Let’s face it, there are precious few of them, aren’t there? I am positively dying of sexual frustration at the moment.”
    The chef, now standing at our table, pretended to be busy straightening the cutlery. Belinda ordered all sorts of yummy things—an endive salad with smoked salmon and grilled lamb chops accompanied by a wondrously smooth claret, followed by a bread and butter pudding to die for. We had just finished our pudding, and coffee had been brought to the table, when a braying laugh could be heard across the grill, a sort of “haw haw haw.” A young man got up from the table in question, still shaking with merriment. “What a riot,” he said and started to walk in our direction.
    “Now you see what I mean about there being no interesting men in London,” Belinda muttered. “This is the current flower of British manhood. Father owns a publishing house but he’s utterly useless between the covers.”
    “I don’t think I know him.”
    “Gussie Gormsley, darling,” she said.
    “Gussie Gormsley?”
    “Augustus. Father is Lord Gormsley. I’m surprised he’s not on your list of eligibles. Must be the publishing connection. No trade in the family and all that.” She