Page 74 of A Daring Desire

Ciarán darted a look at Montagu, delighted with this information. The man returned a steady gaze, one pale eyebrow lifting just a fraction, as if daring him to comment.

Ciarán cleared his throat. “I should be delighted to read you a bedtime story the next time we meet,” he said, unable to resist adding, “But I think perhaps you ought not keep your Pops waiting. He looks like he can’t wait to begin the next instalment.”

“Come, minx,” Montagu said, holding out his hand to the child.

She dipped Ciarán a neat curtsey and bid him goodnight very prettily, kissed Catherine and Matilda, and then ran to Montagu, who escorted her out of the room.

“I’ll come up and say goodnight in a moment,” Ashburton told her, watching them go before turning back to Ciarán.

“She’s lovely,” Ciarán said to him, smiling. “And neither of you have anything to fear from me. I’ll not speak of her.”

“She’s not a secret,” Ashburton said tightly, his expression fierce. “It’s just… I don’t want her to be—”

“I understand, believe me. I know what gossip can do, I assure you.”

Ashburton relaxed a little, his expression easing. He walked into the room and held out his hand to Ciarán. “I understand we are to welcome you to the family,” he said, his tone not exactly friendly but not hostile either.

Ciarán took his hand and returned a rueful smile. “I’m afraid so. I know I have a lot to prove, but I am going to be horribly respectable from now on.”

“Oh, no!” his wife exclaimed, running to take his arm. “Not too respectable, darling. Just think how dull it would be.”

Ashburton snorted. “Cat, you devil. Give the poor fellow a chance to settle in, can’t you?”

Catherine stuck her tongue out at her brother, who rolled his eyes. “If you’ll excuse me,” he said. “I’m going to listen to the bedtime story. It makes my father uncomfortable when I do, and I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

“Wicked boy,” his mother said with amusement as he went out of the room. “Now then, I’m sure you two would like to freshen up before dinner. Cat, you take Ciarán up and don’t leave him alone in the house. You know everyone gets lost. I shouldn’t want him to miss his dinner because he’s taken a wrong turn.”

“Yes, Mama,” Catherine said with a sly grin. “Don’t worry. I shan’t leave him alone for a moment.”

Dinner was a little awkward at first, but thanks to Matilda and his wife, they got through it unscathed, and well enough that Ciarán believed they might actually welcome him in the future if he didn’t mess things up. As he had no intention of doing so, he allowed himself to hope that they might not consider him the spectre at the feast in years to come.

Once they had bid everyone goodnight, Catherine guided him through the labyrinthine halls of Dern Palace and back to her room. When they reached her door, she paused, giving him a coquettish look from under her lashes. “And you need not worry. My brother and my parents' rooms are all the way down that corridor, and the walls of Dern are very, very thick.”

His lips quirked in a smile. “Is that so?” he asked.

“It is.”

Ciarán pushed open the door, and she went through ahead of him. “I’ve no maid tonight,” she remarked. “And I told Mama not to send hers, so you’ll have to help me undress, I’m afraid.”

“How you abuse my gentlemanly manners,” he lamented, closing the door.

She laughed and threw herself upon the bed with a great flounce of skirts and petticoats.

Ciarán looked around the room. It was as sweetly feminine and luxurious as he might have expected, but there were touches that made it entirely hers. She had collected several odd things over the years and the shelves were overstuffed, not only with books, but with small animal skulls and odd shaped stones, a worn piece of blue glass and some badly carved wooden animals.

“Thorn made those,” she said as he lifted an ill-proportioned pig up for closer inspection. “They were some of the first ones he did. He’s much cleverer now. Lord St Clair taught him the knack, for he’s a marvellous artist. Look at that one.”

She pointed to her dressing table where a proud wooden horse stood with its thick mane blowing in the wind. “Thorn?” Ciarán queried.

“My brother, Thomas.”

“Why Thorn?” he asked, admiring the skill with which it had been carved.

She quirked her lips. “Oh, it’s to do with the Duke of Axton’s dog of the same name. I can’t tell you, for poor Tommy would kill me. It’s a funny story,” she said with a smirk.

“Ah,” he said, understanding. “A family secret.”

“Well, yes,” she said, her face falling. “But that’s not to say you aren’t part of the family, for you are, you know. Only I think Thomas would rather tell the story himself. You’ll like him, I promise. He’s a lot easier to get on with than Pip, who’s rather reserved.”