Page 73 of A Daring Desire

“We’ll take a room at the inn in the village,” he said, kissing the top of her head.

“No,” came a cool voice from behind them. “You’ll come to Dern. I’ll ride ahead to warn Lady Montagu while you take your leave of Mrs Clifford. We shall expect you before six.”

It wasn’t a request.

Ciarán glanced down at Cat, who returned a rueful smile.

“Well, he’s trying,” she whispered.

Ciarán snorted and then faced her father. He had walked to stand beside them and was staring with a perplexed frown, for Brutus had gone to sleep with his head on Ciarán’s shoulder and was making soft snoring noises. He looked at Ciarán in astonishment.

“What the devil have you done to my horse?”

Chapter 22

Mama,

What can you tell me about Lady Fidelia Ponsonby? I see her often around the gardens here, drifting about like a sad little ghost. She doesn’t speak to anyone, she seems afraid to do so, but there is such an aura of sorrow that clings to her I cannot help but fear for her. Has there been some tragedy? Every day she walks to the lake and stares down into the water and I am horribly afraid of what is going on in her mind.

―Excerpt of a letter from Mr Hartley De Beauvoir to his mother, Mrs Minerva De Beauvoir.

14th January 1850, Dern.

“Cat, darling!”

Ciarán watched as Lady Montagu jumped up from her seat and ran across the cosy parlour to her daughter, pulling her into a fierce hug. He hung back, not wanting to spoil the joyful reunion, but a moment later, Lady Montagu had released her daughter and hurried up to him, holding out her hands. Her smile was warm and friendly, and he darted a look at Lord Montagu to see if he was about to be murdered. His lordship was indeed watching, and not looking entirely happy, but resigned at least.

Uncertainly, he took the lady’s hands and offered her a smile. “You are very good to receive me so kindly, my lady.”

“Oh, none of this ‘my lady’ nonsense. We are family now,” she said, squeezing his fingers. “I am Matilda, and I hope I might call you Ciarán?”

He stared at her in some surprise, though he had always known this woman to be gentle and generous. She had been kind to him, and he had thrown it back in her face with lewd insults. Remembering that incident had heat prickling up the back of his neck.

“Shall we start over?” she whispered, holding his gaze, such understanding in her blue eyes he hardly knew what to say, so he just nodded. “That’s settled then. Well, Ciarán, we don’t stand on ceremony in this house so you must make yourself at home. Catherine, I’ve had your room prepared for you both and—”

Whatever the lady might have said was interrupted as the door was flung open and a little girl barrelled through it like she’d exploded from a cannon. She ran to Lord Montagu, shouting as she went.

“Pop! Pop! I don’t want to go to bed yet! You promised!”

To Ciarán’s amusement, she tackled Lord Montagu, flinging her arms about him so hard he staggered back a pace. There was an odd silence in the room as Lord Ashburton appeared in the doorway and saw Ciarán. Though he had not expected a warm welcome from either of Cat’s brothers, the glittering look in the man’s eyes surprised him. Then Ciarán looked back to the girl and saw the startling resemblance.

“Papa, Pops did promise, didn’t he?” the girl said, addressing Lord Ashburton.

“He did indeed, Tilly,” Ashburton replied, smiling at the girl. “But you promised to stay upstairs while I fetched him.”

Montagu had lifted Tilly into his arms, holding her protectively as he watched Ciarán.

“Good evening, Lord Ashburton,” Ciarán said carefully, before turning to the little girl. “And Miss Tilly,” he added, bowing to her very formally.

The girl giggled. “My name is Ottilie. That’s a French name, because my mama was French. She’s dead. Everyone calls me Tilly, though. Grandma is Tilly too. Tilly too,” she said again, pleased with the rhyme. “Tilly too, Tilly too.”

“Might I call you Tilly, then?” Ciarán asked, entertained by the little blonde imp who had her Pops in a stranglehold, with her arms tight about his neck.

She gave him a critical once over. “Yes,” she announced. “But who are you?”

“I am Ciarán,” he said. “That’s Irish.”

“Oh.” She looked impressed by this information and wriggled until Montagu set her down. She walked over to him, giving him a look of frank appraisal. “Perhaps next time, you could read me a story,” she offered generously. “But Pops is reading tonight. I like it when he reads because he does all the voices.”