“I really can’t say, ma’am,” Shelby said, his tone flat.
“Of course you can’t.” How would he know the reason behind Bremsford calling? Naturally she was a sight, dressed in a simple, yet comfortable frock, with strands of her hair flying about her face because she’d been enjoying the warmth of the sun and the slight breeze cooling her. Coming to her feet, she began tucking the loose tresses back into place. “Tell him I’ll join him shortly... and have tea brought in.” Although she couldn’t for the life of her imagine he was here for tea.
After leaving the nanny with instructions to keep a close watch on her daughter, she experienced a moment of panic in which she feared he was there to destroy her, had obtained the information for which he was willing to pay a thousand quid. She needed to gird herself. She hurried up the back stairs to her chambers, quickly washed her face, tidied her hair, and decided the frock would do. No need to take the time to slip into something nicer and remind him how well her father had provided for her.
A few minutes later, she strolled into the drawing room. Her guest was standing at the fireplace, his back to the door. “My lord.”
The seventh Earl of Bremsford turned, and she was awash in memories of the sixth, her father, as a younger man, pretending to be a pony and givingher a ride on his back, lifting her onto his shoulders so she could pluck leaves from tree branches. For some reason, she’d always been more fascinated with leaves that were hard to reach than flowers that could be gathered with ease. But then far too many times she’d been accused of striving to grasp what was never within range.
“Miss Leyland.” He gave a quick nod of his head that could almost have been a bow.
“Your presence is an unexpected”—she cut herself off because it most certainly wasn’t a pleasure, which was how she would normally greet a guest whose arrival surprised her—“well, just... unexpected.”
“I imagineshockingis probably the word for which you’re searching.” His lips didn’t quite form a smile, but reflected the barest hint of his trying to make a joke at his own expense, and she wondered if he could be as fun-loving as her—their—father.
Hearing the slight rattling of china, she held still and studied him, aware of his scrutinizing her in return. She’d never been this close to him. It was uncanny, how very much he favored his father. Same jaw, nose, brow. His cheekbones were a tad sharper, perhaps inherited from his mother. He was a little more slender, but that might change as he aged.
The maid entered, set the tray on a table, and, following a shallow curtsy, quietly left.
“Would you care for some tea?” Regina asked, waving a hand toward the tray as though the man couldn’t tell what had been delivered.
“No, thank you.”
“Scotch?”
He glanced toward the sideboard, and she hoped he didn’t realize it had originally been set up to accommodate their father. “No, thank you.”
She indicated the nearest sitting area. “Would you at least like to make yourself comfortable?” As if either of them could be comfortable in this situation fraught with years of mistrust and curiosity.
Without a word, he settled into a large plush chair, the one in which her father had always sat. It was a little dizzying to see a man who looked so much like him perched so stiffly on the cushion. She couldn’t imagine the current Bremsford ever lounging.
She wanted to sit in a chair on the far side of the room. Instead, she gathered up her pluck and took the nearer one facing him. For several minutes, they simply stared at each other, noting the similarities—brown eyes, blond hair—and differences. Noses, chins, lips.
If he had somehow managed to determine she was Anonymous, she didn’t think he’d have waited to inform her that he was on the verge of taking everything from her. But despite her best efforts, she couldn’t think of any other reason for him to be there. Finally, when her nerves were stretched to the point of snapping, she said, “I assume you’ve come with some purpose in mind. Don’t suppose you’d be kind enough to share it.”
“I’ve always heard you’re quite... up-front about things. Neither bashful nor timid, I’ve been told.” Slowly, he tapped the well-manicured fingers of his right hand on the arm of the chair. Did he find her boldness an afront? Was his wife a shy creature? Hecleared his throat. “Father died disappointed that hislegitimatefamily had never been welcoming of hisillegitimateone.”
She didn’t know if, by pointing out the disparity of their places within Society and the law, he was merely obtuse, being deliberately rude, or truly striving to be kind.
“I’ve been reckoning with that of late,” he continued, “and experienced tremendous guilt at harboring ill feelings toward you when the circumstances of your birth were not your fault.”
She couldn’t very well ask if that guilt had prompted him to place a bounty on the identity of Anonymous because if she wasn’t the author, why would she care about his actions? However, she could be upset over something else he’d done without giving herself away. “Was it your guilt that urged you to demand of Lord Knightly that he confirm I was the author ofMy Secret Desires?”
His cheeks actually turned a mottled red. “When I saw the two of you riding together at the park, I feared he might have mentioned our encounter. He denied any association he or you might have had with the book, of course.”
“He had no reason not to.”
“I simply thought with all the conjecture that he was Lord K—”
“I doubt I am the only woman to have been in his life.”
“True. Before you, there were any number from what I understand. He does seem to have a penchant for enjoying the ladies. And they him, if rumors are to be believed.”
She couldn’t help but wonder if that was another jab, an attempt to make her feel like she hadn’t been special. But then Knightly had never asked any of the others to marry him. She also knew there had been very few since her. “Young swells will be young swells, I suppose.”
“Quite. Hopefully you will not hold my inquisitiveness against me. I... well, as I said, my attitude toward you did not please Father while he was alive, and I wished to ensure your character before I”—he reached into his coat pocket, withdrew a cream-colored envelope, and held it out toward her—“extended an invitation to the ball my countess and I are hosting Tuesday next.”
She stared at the square of vellum as though it was Cleopatra’s asp on the verge of striking. “You’re joking, surely.”
