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Rebecca poked at her cold eggs. She was only used to Cook and Elsie at home in Boston where she lived with Samuel. Growing up, she’d eaten most of her suppers with Cook and the elderly maid, until she was deemed a lady and made to sit in the dining room with Uncle Thomas. Her uncle had been a dear, and Rebecca loved him, but dining with him had been rather a trial. His dinner conversation had been so flat when compared to the lively nightly gossip she’d had with Cook and Elsie. The conversation at meals had improved a little when Samuel had come to live with her on the death of Uncle Thomas, but not by much. Samuel could be terribly witty when he wanted to, but so often he seemed distracted by business affairs.
“Do you mind?” Samuel’s question broke into her rambling thoughts.
“I’m sorry?”
Her brother was frowning at her now, and Rebecca had the sinking sensation that somehow she’d disappointed him. “Do you mind that I’ve asked Lady Emeline to help?”
“No, not at all.” She smiled brightly. Of course, she’d rather that he’d spent the time with her, but he was in London on business, after all. “I’m flattered that you thought of me.”
But this answer made him set down his coffee cup. “You say that as if I consider you a burden.”
Rebecca dropped her gaze. Actually, that was exactly how she reckoned he thought of her. A burden. How could he not? She was much younger than he and brought up in the city. Samuel, in contrast, had been raised in the wilds of the frontier until the age of fourteen. Sometimes she thought the gulf that separated them was wider than the ocean. “I know you didn’t wish me to come on this trip.”
“We’ve been over this before. I was happy to include you once I knew that you wanted to travel with me.”
“Yes, and I’m very grateful.” Rebecca carefully straightened the silverware at her place, aware that her answer wasn’t quite right. She peeked at him under her brows.
He was frowning again. “Rebecca, I—”
The entrance of the butler interrupted him. “Mr. Kitcher has arrived, sir.”
Mr. Kitcher was her brother’s man of business.
“Thank you,” Samuel muttered. He stood and bent to kiss her on the forehead. “Kitcher and I are to see a man about arranging to visit Wedgwood’s showroom. I’ll be back after luncheon. We are expected at her ladyship’s house at two o’clock.”
“Very well,” Rebecca replied, but Samuel was already at the door. He exited without another word, and Rebecca was left to contemplate her eggs all alone. Except, of course, for the footmen.
THE COLONIAL GENTLEMAN was even more imposing standing in her little sitting room. That was Emeline’s first thought that afternoon when she turned to greet her guests. The contrast was stark between her pretty sitting room—elegant, sophisticated, and very civilized—and the man who stood so motionless at its center. He should’ve been overwhelmed by the gilt and satin, should’ve seemed naïve and a little crude in his plain woolen clothes.
Instead he dominated the room.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Hartley.” Emeline held out her hand, belatedly remembering their handshake of the day before. She held her breath to see if he’d repeat that unorthodox gesture. But Mr. Hartley merely took her hand and quite properly brushed his lips in the air an inch above her knuckles. For a moment, he seemed to hesitate there, his nostrils flaring, and then he straightened. She caught the amused gleam in his eyes. Her own eyes narrowed. The scoundrel! He’d known all along yesterday that he was supposed to kiss her hand.
“May I present my sister, Rebecca Hartley,” he said now, and Emeline was forced to marshal her attention.
The young girl who stepped forward was pleasingly attractive. She had her brother’s dark hair, but where his eyes were a warm brown, hers held sparks of green and even yellow. A most unusual color but very pretty nonetheless. She wore a simple dimity frock with a square neckline and a bit of lace at the sleeves and bodice. Emeline noted that the wardrobe could certainly be improved.
“How do you do?” she said as the girl made a passable curtsy.
“Oh, ma’am—I mean, my lady—I’m so pleased to meet you,” Miss Hartley gasped. She had a pretty, if unpolished manner.
Emeline nodded. “My aunt, Mademoiselle Molyneux.”
Tante Cristelle was sitting at her left, perched at the very edge of her chair so that several inches of air was between her ramrod-straight back and the chair’s back. The older woman inclined her head. Her lips were pinched, but her eyes were staring at the hem of Miss Hartley’s dress.
Mr. Hartley smiled, his mouth twisting rather raffishly at the corners as he bowed over her aunt’s hand. “How do you do, ma’am?”
“Very well, I thank you, monsieur,” Tante said crisply.
Mr. Hartley and his sister sat, the girl on the yellow and white damask settee, her brother on the orange wing chair. Emeline settled in an armchair and nodded at Crabs, the butler, who immediately disappeared to order the tea.
“You said yesterday that you were in London on business, Mr. Hartley. What kind?” she asked her guest.
Mr. Hartley flicked the skirt of his brown coat aside to set one ankle across the knee of the opposite leg. “I deal in the import and export of goods to Boston.”
“Indeed?” Emeline murmured faintly. Mr. Hartley seemed not at all self-conscious to admit engaging in trade. But then what else could one expect from a colonial who wore leather leggings? Her gaze dropped to his crossed leg. The soft leather fit closely to his calf, outlining a lovely masculine form. She averted her eyes.
“I hope to meet Mr. Josiah Wedgwood,” Mr. Hartley said. “Perhaps you’ve heard of him? He has a marvelous new crockery factory.”
