Page 58 of Brigand

“What?” he barked. Then at Kaitlin’s frown, he cleared histhroat. “Um. Yes?”

“Would you care for more tea?” She enunciated ratherprecisely, as though she feared he was incapable of grasping the question.

“No. Thank you.” He set down his still-full cup and saucer.They rattled on the table.

“Another cake then?”

“No. Thank you.” Ewan shifted. The divan was uncomfortable.His knees were up about his chin. What he wanted was a conversation withMoncrieff. Though their welcome—or Sophia’s at least—had been warm, he burnedfor confirmation that all was settled. “Is His Grace joining us?”

Kaitlin tipped her head to the side, a sour look on herface. “He’s in the middle of something important. He’ll be down shortly.” Shenarrowed her eyes. “He knows you’re here.”

Ewan tried not to grunt. But he wanted to. It was hisnatural inclination to make noises like a rutting pig when he was displeased.And being kept waiting—well, that displeased him mightily. It took effort buthe forced the churning in his gut to quiet.

His calm was hard won. For one thing, he was impatient tohave this over with—he hummed with nervous energy. For another, whenever Violetspoke, her voice sank into his soul and awoke a hunger he could not quench.

Certainly not with lemon cakes.

The ladies chatted amongst themselves like chirping birds,renewing their friendship and catching up with all that had happened sincethey’d seen each other last. Ned said little. He was too busy studying Sophia’ssmile, her laugh, her dimples when they winked.

Ewan would have been annoyed at that if he hadn’t had somany other annoying things crowding his mind. In the end he had to stand andpace to the window. He glared out onto the street. Well, the drive. Wyeth Housewas seated on an enormous estate, even nestled in the heart of Mayfair as itwas.

How had he ever thought he could come here and try to fitin? What madness had possessed him?

But he had. Somewhere in the deep, dark recesses of hismind, he had harbored a hope. A tiny sprig of hope that somehow, in the nextthree months, he could woo her. Win her.

Woo her?

Win her?

Yes. He was, he feared, a lunatic.

Now that he saw her in the environment in which shebelonged, he knew—knew—he could never have her. Why would she want him, a base,tainted, common man? Why would she ever want him when she could so easily landa decent man? A gentleman?

A dark cloud settled over him. A miasma so murky, sodisheartening, he wanted to rip his hair out at the roots.

The coward nestled deep in his soul longed to run. Justleave. Sophia would be fine here without him. This was more her world than his.He would never fit in here. Society would not allow it. The arrogant members ofthe haute ton would certainly never accept him—

“Robert Granger. Upon my soul,” a deep female voice warbled.“Whatever brings you to Wyeth House?”

Ewan turned. An old woman, tottering against her cane, approachedhim with untoward vigor. She stopped and squinted, peering at him throughrheumy eyes. “My apologies, sir. I thought you were someone else.”

“Ewan McCloud, ma’am.” He bowed. He supposed that was whatone did in these circumstances.

“Ah. The brigand.” She cackled, presumably to herself.

He should not have blushed. It was hardly a manly thing todo. But he couldn’t stop the hot tide flooding his cheeks. He forbore glancingat Violet though he could feel her gaze on him. He could always feel her gazewhen it lit on him. It was a curse. “Ma’am. The very same.” He bowed again.

“I am Hortense Bigby. Delighted to meet you.” She settledherself with a great gust on the divan and selected a cake from the platter,raking him with an assessing perusal. Then she winked. “I always had apreference for the wicked ones.”

His mouth fell open. Was she flirting with him?

She tittered and turned her attention to the ladies, pinningSophia with a sharp scrutiny. “I understand I’m to groom your sister for herseason.”

“Yes, ma’am. And thank you.” He struggled with what to saynext. He should say something more. Shouldn’t he? He couldn’t fathom what thatwould be. Fortunately, Hortense Bigby did not require niceties.

“Well,” she trilled. “Stand up, child. Let me see what we’reworking with.”

Sophia did as she was asked. Bless her. She always did.