Lawrence kept others out not because he believed himself superior but because, if they knew the real him, they would no longer be interested—or, worse, he would be mocked.
He was notgoodat doing and saying the right things unless he’d had time to craft the perfect response.
The smell of fresh coffee reached his nose and he turned to see his housekeeper, Mrs. Root, enter the library. She arranged the contents of a silver tray on the small table next to his favorite chair.
Her blue eyes normally sparkled, but today they were filled with concern.
“What is it?” he demanded.
Her hands shook. “My niece.”
Mrs. Root had four nieces, but there was no need to inquire which one. Betsy, the youngest, had always been sickly. Now she was expecting a child.
“What does the doctor say?” he asked, his voice gruff. There was nothing worse than losing a loved one.
“That a month of confinement remains and Betsy should spend it in bed.” Mrs. Root twisted her hands. “My next holiday isn’t for a fortnight, but would you mind if I took a day or two—”
“Go.” Lawrence held up his palm. “Take as much time as you need.”
Betsy was a washerwoman. A month of no wages, the cost of medicines and doctors, weeks to recover with the baby… Lawrence scanned the thinning shelves until his gaze lit upon a volume that might earn a reasonable amount. He would send a donation on the morrow.
“Thank you.” Mrs. Root curtseyed.
“You can depart now if you like. I’ll ring for someone else to collect the tray.”
She made no move to leave.
He frowned. “Was there something else?”
Her eyes softened. “Hastings says you’re to acquire a kitten.”
Deuced meddlesome butler!
“Hastings is mistaken,” Lawrence said coldly.
Mrs. Root looked as though she wanted to pinch his cheek. “It’s a wonderful idea.”
“I am not in the market for a kitten,” he enunciated.
“A puppy, was it?” Her smile widened. “I thought Hastings had misunderstood. How you used to long for a dog! ‘He’d be the best friend a lad could have,’ you told your father. One must lay newspaper for a puppy, of course, so I’ll have a word with Peggy and Dinah before I go—”
He exaggerated each syllable. “No. Pets.”
Mrs. Root appeared crestfallen.
“I knew it was too pleasant a thought.” Her gaze brightened. “What if…what if you didn’t purchase an animal from a breeder but rescued one off the street? If you haven’t the time or dislike it, you can always give her to someone else.”
He narrowed his eyes. “You think if I let it in, I’ll never give it away.”
“I would never call you sentimental, Your Grace.” She placed a hand to her bosom and backed away toward the door. “Hastings, on the other hand…”
“I am not sentimental!”
It was already too late. Mrs. Root had left him in the center of a library stuffed with family portraits and every scrap of art he could scrounge from the Faircliffe estate.
“Notthatsentimental.”
But his feet led him to an empty pedestal where he intended to place the one item of beauty Father had ever valued. A gift for his wife.
