Page 18 of The Lady Makes Her Mark

Then, to her shock, the Earl of Ryland sat down on the floor, balancing a plate of bread and cheese on one knee while cradling a steaming cup in the opposite hand.

“You are in sympathy with him, I’m sure,” she said. “With seven sisters to plague you, you must understand the terrible plight of such a man, surrounded by chatter all day.”

He slanted a glance toward her. “Then you would be astonished to know how very much I miss them whenever we are apart.”

She was not astonished. She was incredulous.

But she disguised her reaction behind a choking cough. “I—I think I must not have any siblings,” she offered when she could speak. “Though of course I’m not really sure.” It wasn’t even a fib. Her mother had had no other children, but her father might have. If those siblings existed, they were nothing to her, however. She’d grown up quite alone. “I have a sense I’ve often been left to my own devices.”

Lord Ryland chewed over her answer along with a bite of cheese, and then took a long gulp of tea to wash it down.

“My friend Deveraux hasn’t any brothers or sisters. When I was younger, I used to envy him his peace and quiet.”

Peace and quiet? From what she had heard, Lord Deveraux took every available opportunity to raise as much of a ruckus as possible. And Lord Ryland’s friendship with the man must reflect some weakness in the earl, some complicity with Deveraux’s notorious troublemaking.

Mustn’t it?

“And now?” she managed to ask.

“From time to time I make a great show of annoyance at my sisters’ incessant babble and retreat to my library, but the truth is . . .” He paused for a long moment, thoughtful. His next words were underscored by the silence of the room. “Too much quiet drives me mad.”

Gradually, though, Constantia became aware of all the little sounds around them, the drip of rain from the eaves and the crackle of the fire and the low hum of voices from the pub below. A certain amused wistfulness settled over his face. “Besides, silence is almost always a sign that trouble’s afoot.”

That meshed, she supposed, with his earlier description of his sisters and their dubious accomplishments. But whatever she had expected this journey to reveal, it had not been anything like genuine affection for his mischief-loving sisters.

Despite the inevitable rumples of travel and the fact that he was seated on the floor, the Earl of Ryland still managed to look the picture of a proper English gentleman. Except for the way the knot of his cravat had loosened. And a lock of dark hair that persisted in falling forward, requiring him to toss his head occasionally to keep it out of his eyes.

Her fingertips itched with longing, the unexpected desire to make another sketch of him, as he appeared to her in that moment, nothing like the man she thought she knew.

“Speaking of your sisters,” she said, jerking herself away from a precipice that had been the death of many an unwary woman, “what can you tell me about their artistic inclinations? Will I find them eager pupils?”

At that question, his body went from relaxed to stiff, though he hardly moved. Every suggestion of softness disappeared, every hint that the true Lord Ryland might be neither rigid nor rakish. “I’m sure you’ll find that many of them, perhaps all, have some ability. Harry in particular may even have a gift.”

“But none of them have had any prior instruction?” she asked, recalling what he had told her in the carriage and making no effort to disguise her surprise. “Why did you not ensure that Lady Harriet at least had the benefit of a master?”

For answer, he stuffed the last bite of bread and cheese into his mouth, freeing one hand so he could push to his feet—a clear refusal to answer. “I am in danger of forgetting my manners,” he said, his back to her as he returned his cup and saucer to the kitchen. “You must be tired from the journey and yesterday’s ordeal.”

Both of them were keeping secrets. But his might not be the one she’d assumed he hid from the world.

“Yes, I—” She shot a glance toward the curtain, behind which lay the bed they would share, then gazed down wistfully at her own empty plate, wishing suddenly for some excuse for delay. “I suppose I am.”

“Then I’ll go down and see what report the coachman has to make, while you . . .” He made an aimless gesture with one hand and glanced over his shoulder just enough that she could see his cheek was pink. “The water’s warm, if you’d still like a wash.”

“Oh.” Heat surged into her own face. “Thank you. But I—” Never having had a lady’s maid, she had always kept her clothing simple enough to manage on her own. Present circumstances had created a new set of challenges, however. She held up her injured wrist. “I’ll need some assistance, I’m afraid.”

He turned away before she could see whether her words had made him blush harder, or blanch. But she could hear him drag in a ragged breath. “Of course.”

No steel-spined butler had ever moved with the precision and propriety he exhibited as he poured water from the pot into a shallow washbasin, gathered a few rough towels, lit a tallow candle, and carried it all behind the curtain.

Dutifully, she followed him. He made a makeshift washstand on the upturned cask, then turned as if to go.

“If you could just—” With a wiggle of bandaged fingertips toward the nape of her neck, she indicated the fastenings of her dress. She could not bear to think of another night in that same dirty, and now damp, garment.

When he did not meet her eye, she turned her back to him. For just a moment, she thought he meant to refuse. Then she was aware of the tug of his fingers slipping loose the short row of buttons along her spine.

When the last button slipped free, she felt the fabric sag and gape open. Instinctively, she wrapped one arm across her chest to keep the dress from slipping to the floor. Her plain cotton shift, dingy with washing, must now be on display, along with the fact that she wore no corset. Fortunately for her independence, she’d never really required one. Her figure was straight as a stick, and no amount of tight lacing could have coaxed a cleavage from her bosom.

Would he say something disapproving?