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Mrs. Crumb entered the room with the maids during the flurry and quietly directed setting everything out. She glanced inquiringly at Megs when the maids were done. When Megs thanked her, Mrs. Crumb nodded and ushered the maids out, closing the door behind her.

“Mama,” Sarah said, leaning down to kiss her mother on the cheek. “What a surprise.”

“That was the idea,” Mrs. St. John said.

Sarah sat. “Why?”

“Well, I thought this estrangement had gone on long enough, and since Godric obviously won’t do anything about it, I decided to. Thank you, dear.” Mrs. St. John accepted a dish of tea from Megs, sweetened with several spoons of sugar, just the way Megs knew she liked it. “And,” she added practically after taking a sip, “the girls and I are in need of new frocks, especially Jane since she’ll have her coming-out this autumn. You as well, Sarah, dear.”

“Oh, good,” Megs murmured. “I’ve been meaning to visit a modiste. We can all go together.”

“What fun!” Jane bounced in her seat. The door to the sitting room opened, but she continued, oblivious. “That sounds much more pleasant than having to visit grumpy old Godric.”

“Jane!” Megs hissed, but it was far too late.

“I wasn’t aware we were expecting visitors,” Godric rasped from the doorway.

Megs bit her lip. He did not look pleased.

Chapter Eleven

“Is this Hell?” Faith asked as she looked at the rocky shore. “No,” the Hellequin said. He’d either not noticed or not cared that she’d pushed Despair off the great black horse. “We still have a long journey ahead before we reach Hell. Before us now is the Peak of Whispers.” He pointed to a range of black, jagged mountains that loomed across the distant horizon. “Are you sure you wish to continue?” “Yes,” Faith said, and wrapped her arms about the Hellequin’s middle.

He merely nodded and spurred his horse on. …

—From The Legend of the Hellequin

Grumpy old Godric.

It was a fair assessment—though Godric doubted that Jane had taken any time thinking the matter over. He was grumpy—or at least morose. And as for old, well, he supposed he was that as well—in comparison to his half sisters, anyway. He was seven and thirty. Sarah was a mere dozen years younger than he, but Charlotte was seventeen years younger and Jane nineteen.

He was old enough to be her father.

It was an unspannable gap—always had been, always would be.

“Godric,” his stepmother said softly. She rose and crossed to him, and then surprised him by taking one of his hands in her own, small soft ones. “It’s so good to see you.”

There it was, the guilt and anxious resentfulness he felt every time he saw this woman. She made him into an awkward schoolboy, and he hated it.

“Madam,” he said, aware that his tone was too stiff, too formal. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?”

She looked up at him—the top of her head came only to his midchest—and her eyes seemed to search for something in his face.

“We wanted to see you,” she said at last.

“And we need new frocks,” Jane said from behind her mother. His half sister’s tone was defiant, but her expression was uncertain.

He’d probably looked like that much of the time when he’d been her age.

Godric nodded, leading his stepmother over to where she’d been seated before. “How long do you intend to stay?”

“A fortnight,” his stepmother said.

“Ah,” Godric murmured, and felt Megs’s look. For the first time he glanced at his wife.

His wife, whom he’d bedded just last night.

She wore a smart pink gown with black figures and trimmings, her hair dark and lustrous, and she sat very straight, watching him with a worried frown knit between her gracefully arched brows. He nearly stopped breathing. She was so lovely, Megs, his wife. Had his father’s family not been here, he might’ve crossed to her, pulled her from her seat, and led her to their rooms where—

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