Page 67 of The Gentlewoman Companion

“Yes.” But she was distracted, adjusting pillows and whispering with gentle concern to Samuel, whose small white hand found Margaret’s.

As he watched his sister and his helpless brother, something inside James’s chest expanded, a feeling as sharp as it was tender. He was grateful they were there and allowing his help, that Margaret had come to him, even that he’d discovered their existence. He felt it a mercy to be part of this scene.

The doctor entered and began examining the boy. Margaret gestured at James to leave.

He retreated to his room, where he had a bath drawn. In steaming water, he stared at the wood-paneled ceiling. The chance Margaret and Samuel would become fodder for idle tongues was high. He would ask Mrs. Corfield to tell his mother they were relatives of Mr. Kent. His mother’s preoccupation with her salons and Louisa may prevent her from becoming too interested in the matter.

He sighed and settled deeper into the bath. It was natural and right that his father’s children were in the house. When Margaret accustomed herself to the idea and saw how comfortable she and Samuel were, she would agree to stay. Everything would be as it should.

After bathing he pulled on breeches and a shirt, threw a dressing gown around himself, and departed for his study. Since deciding not to vote and visiting Rosemary Lane, the pull he’d felt to shelter the children there had grown. He had determined to write the governor of the Foundling Hospital a letter. He would visit as soon as may be and see what he could do for the parentless children.

Scuffling sounded from the entrance hall. The clock read ten in the morning. It could only be Louisa and his mother, returned from an early walk. He glanced down at his deshabille. He hadn’t closed his shirt, but there was no reason to think the ladies would disturb him. Yet, their footsteps approached. The door swung open.

“I considered it, but it’s very long…” Louisa stopped, her eyes widening at the sight of James’s exposed chest.

“Mother. Miss Thorpe. Good morning.”

His mother strode in. “James, your shirt is undone.” She gestured for Louisa to follow her. “Now, I know it is here somewhere.”

Louisa turned away and helped his mother search the bookshelves while he struggled with his buttons.

He cleared his throat. “What are you in search of?”

“Clarissa,” his mother said. “Can you believe Louisa has never read it?”

“I believe it is here.” From its place, James pulled the thick volume, a lengthy epistolary novel about a young woman who, threatened with a forced marriage, put her trust in a blackguard. He presented it to Louisa, grateful she had escaped the machinations of her own family without submitting to the wiles of a villain. Her soft hand slid over his, driving a wave of heat through his arm. He withdrew and stuffed his hands into the pockets of his robe. As well-mannered as the countess herself, Louisa behaved as though seeing his exposed chest was an unremarkable occurrence.

He remained rooted in place, not knowing what else to say. Louisa’s curls framed her face, as tasteful as her practical morning dress, which had few trappings. Golden sunlight washed over her face, highlighting arched brows over blue eyes that spoke everything warm and inviting. A freckle kissed the corner of her mouth. She arched her neck, drawing attention to the delicate line of her jaw.

“You may return to your room,” Louisa said, perhaps feeling his stare.

Despite himself, he laughed. Who was she to give him orders in his own study? Then again, why was he standing there in only his shirtsleeves?

“Just so,” his mother agreed. “And get Graham to shave you.”

“Since the two of you are in agreement, I will take myself off.” He bowed dramatically and left the room.

Later, after preparing himself for the day, he went in search of Louisa, finding her sitting at his desk. With Clarissa open before her, she scribbled into a journal. Upon his entrance, she snapped the notebook closed, sending a smattering of ink from the quill over his desk.

“Oh! Pardon me, my lord.” She began sopping up the mess with a blotter. “I was out of ink and meant only to write a few thoughts before I forgot them.”

He moved to help her clean the ink. “You have no need to feel embarrassed. I would enjoy hearing your thoughts, if you would share them with me.”

She glanced down at Clarissa and turned the sharpest shade of red he’d ever seen her wear. “No! I mean, not until they are fully formed.”

Disappointed, he straightened, his insides shrinking as he reconsidered his purpose in finding her. He wanted to tell her about Margaret and invite her to visit the Foundling Hospital with him. Even as Louisa retained her reticence, his desire to share his worries and hopes with her increased. Was it selfish of him to draw her into his problems? Rather than reject his disclosures, she showed real concern. While she may not require a listening ear, he did.

It was petty to withdraw simply because he felt her doing so. He reminded himself that whatever she kept from him was none of his concern. Perhaps she was not burdened with this odd pull that led him to her, but he could not help following it.

He sat across from the desk and said in a low voice, “Where is my mother?”

She raised a brow at his furtive manner. “She is resting in her room.”

A swift glance over his shoulder told him the hall was empty. No doubt Graham waited nearby, but he was respectful enough not to listen.

“My sister and brother are here.”

Surprise, excitement, and trepidation flashed across her face until she settled her countenance into something serene. “And?”