“It would make very dull telling, my lord,” she said, feeling a sharp stab of homesickness. She always tried not to think about her girlhood.
“Let me be the judge of that,” he said. “Tell me about your father and mother and about your brothers and sisters if you have any. Tell me about Laura Melfort and who she is.”
“I had a happy childhood.” She was almost whispering. “So very happy. There were eleven of us, including Mama and Papa.”
And as poor as church mice. Made poorer by the fact that Papa gave away money that his own family desperately needed and Mama gave away food that her own children would have devoured with great enthusiasm. But they were never hungry or cold for all that, and were never dressed in rags. And they were rich beyond dreams in love and happiness. They were never lonely. There was always a brother or a sister or more often several of each to play with and occasionally fight with. And they were never bored. There were always chores to be done and lessons to be learned and parishioners to be visited and family social or musical or literary evenings to be participated in and enjoyed.
It had been an idyll, her girlhood. Unfortunately, she had not realized it or appreciated it fully at the time. Or perhaps it was not unfortunate. Perhaps happiness such as that had to be unconscious. Perhaps happiness would be marred if one tried to clutch it greedily to oneself.
Perhaps, as Papa had always said, the moment was a fleeting thing and, had to be lived to the full and then relinquished so that the next moment was not wasted.
And there was always memory. Memory was one of God’s most precious gifts to man—and woman.
“I had only one brother and one sister,” the Earl of Dearborne said. “My brother was twelve years older than I. I never particularly admired him, and he found me a nuisance. My sister Anne married when I was just a child and went to Barbados with her husband. I was not allowed to play with other children of the neighborhood. They were too far beneath me socially. And I rarely saw my parents. They spent most of their time in London. They died before I reached manhood. I had everything I could possibly need, and everything I did not need too. I envy your memories, Miss Melfort.”
She gazed back into his eyes. She felt absurdly like crying. Memories, even good memories—especially good memories—could be painful. They could make the present seem so very barren, so very empty.
“Who educated you?” he asked. “Your father?”
She nodded. “He taught us all,” she said.
“Sons and daughters indiscriminately?” he said. “I suppose he taught you Latin and mathematics and everything else that is usually reserved for a boy’s education?”
“Yes,” she said, “and Greek.”
He smiled fleetingly. “A bluestocking indeed,” he said. “No man can he expected to take you on, you know. Any man would he terrified of you.”
“I don’t care,” she said. “I am able to reach out to a world beyond my physical being. With my mind and with books I can transcend the frequent dullness and boredom of everyday living.”
“Miss Melfort.” He leaned a little closer to her, and she resisted the urge to press her head back against the glass of the window. “Was that meant to be a reproach? Were you being impertinent again?”
No. Her mouth formed the word, but no sound came out. She cleared her throat awkwardly. “No, my lord.”
“Is the lure of living romance vicariously still inducing Beatrice to read?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said. “I believe she has finally penetrated the mystery of linking letters and sounds together and making sense of what is written on a page.”
He looked at her in silence for what seemed like a long while, his eyes roaming over her face. He looked directly into her eyes at last and smiled. “Thank you,” he said softly. “Thank you, Laura Melfort. She is an important person in my life. Not just because I am her guardian. I am fond of her.”
“You love her,” she said, “as if she were your own daughter.”
“Yes.” He lowered his foot to the floor at last and straightened up. “I am glad I lied shamelessly and avoided my guests for a short while. I feel restored. I am going to have to keep you in my household in some capacity, Miss Melfort, after Beatrice has flown from the nest. You may very well save me from death by boredom at some future date.”
“How absurd,” she said tartly. “You should marry someone who can give you companionship, my lord.”
He impaled her with his blue gaze again, and she realized the impertinence of her words. “Indeed?” he said softly. “Are you applying for the position?”
She shut her eyes tightly and could feel herself flush.
“You deserve your embarrassment,” he said. “I think I may be trusted to choose my own bride and order my own life without your advice, Miss Melfort, learned and wise as I am sure it is.”
There were a few moments of unbearable silence before she heard his booted feet crossing the room. Then she heard the door close quietly.
When she opened her eyes, he was gone.
The house party was to culminate in a ball on the last evening. Neighbors had been invited from miles around to fill the ballroom. The house and the neighborhood were abuzz with preparations. There had been no full-scale ball held at Dearborne for years and years.
He felt somewhat guilty. He knew that everyone, from his lowliest servant to his most distant neighbor, expected it to be a betrothal ball. Although he had not breathed a word about his intentions, they nevertheless seemed to be common knowledge. And he knew that Viscount Gleam was expecting to be taken aside to discuss a marriage settlement, and that Miss Hopkins herself was expecting a declaration.
