"Oh, Lord Foxbridge!" the lady looked up by the time I'd crossed the room and stood in front of her, having finished a tricky bit of curlicue on her embroidery, "I'm so glad to meet you!"
"The pleasure is all mine, Lady Levondale," I bowed low over her hand and kissed it, making her giggle a bit. She was a pretty little thing, pleasantly plump with a pert smile and merry eyes, expensively but rather sloppily dressed in a French lace tea gown slipping sideways on her round shoulders, her pearl necklaces all hanging slightly askew, and springy white-blonde curls escaping from the pearl-headed combs of a perhaps-too-ambitious coiffure--she made me think of the White Queen, but dressed by Callot Sœurs.
"I do hope you had good weather for your journey," she gestured for me to take the chair beside her own, "Are you hungry? We just finished luncheon, but Winborn can bring you some sandwiches, if you like. Or something to drink?"
"Some tea would be lovely, thank you," I smiled at the butler, who bowed and sailed backward out the door, snapping it shut as he went, "I was delayed getting out of London this morning, so my man packed a basket for us. We stuffed ourselves with deviled eggs and cheese rolls from Croydon to Crawley. It's great fun, eating while driving, though Pond made me pull over so he could brush off all the crumbs."
"It sounds dangerous," she clasped her hands together nervously, "I always get very nervous if my driver takes his hand off the wheel even for a moment."
"Not at all," I assured her, "So long as the motorcar is well made and kept in repair, you barely need to touch the wheel unless you're going to turn. In my Royce, I can practically lie down and take a nap on a straight road."
"Really? Still, I'd prefer my driver to have both hands on, it's so much more reassuring."
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