Page 62 of Lady Arabella’s Reluctant Hero

The comment was so not in keeping with where her thoughts had been, it took a moment to register. And even when it did, she found herself staring up at him in confusion. "Why would he be?"

"You've been away for so long," he said.

When she merely continued to stare, he added, "You are his daughter. Surely your absence has caused concern."

Her huff of laughter interrupted him. She smothered her smile as best as possible. It was just that John was so unfailingly considerate. So innately kind.

So much so, it seemed he couldn't even fathom that not all fathers care so deeply.

"Lord Alderton, your concern is kind, but unnecessary." She stopped walking. "My father wrote to the duchess to confirm the arrangement and has not, so far as I know, spared me another thought."

She smiled, hoping to ease any bitterness he might sense in her words. "He will notice my absence when someone reminds him of it. Possibly at Christmas."

John stared at her. She could see him trying—and failing—to reconcile this with his experience of fatherhood.

She had the urge to laugh again. Not at him, of course. But just with…happiness. For Lucy. And perhaps for herself.

It was heartening to learn that there were good men like John in this world.

Even if their newfound friendship couldn't last.

When she looked up to find him still looking perplexed a moment later, she tried to distract him. "What about yours?"

"Hmm?" He glanced over at her, his brows still knitted in a worried look.

She smiled. "What were your parents like?"

"Ah." He fell into step beside her again. "My mother died when I was very small. Younger than Lucy. Too young to remember her, really."

"I'm sorry," she said softly.

"I used to think it was a blessing, the not remembering. That it spared me something." He glanced over at her, his expression unreadable.

"And now?"

He took a deep breath and let out a heavy sigh. "Now, having listened to you speak with Lucy about Eleanor… About remembering and forgetting. I wonder if perhaps it was a curse. Lucy has her mother's voice somewhere in her memory, even if she can't always find it. I have nothing. Not even a fragment."

She considered this. "I think either way is its own kind of difficult."

"Yes." He was quiet for a moment. "My father remarried when I was seven. Clarissa's mother was—she is—a good woman. Kind. Steady. A bit preoccupied with society gossip, perhaps, but she has a good heart. I think of her as my mother, in most of the ways that matter."

"And you became the elder brother," she said.

"Indeed," he said with a tip of his head.

"Ahh," she said. "I understand now."

"Understand what?"

She gestured at him. The broad shoulders and the steady hands and the quiet watchfulness that she had once mistaken for dullness. "Why you are the way you are. Why you cannot seem to stop yourself from taking care of people—" She hesitated only briefly before adding, "Even those of us who have not asked to be taken care of and…and perhaps do not deserve it."

"Everyone deserves protection." He said it so simply, her heart's erratic reaction was really quite uncalled for.

A brief silence fell. Arabella suspected they were both caught up in their thoughts.

She caught sight of the gazebo he'd mentioned in the distance and distracted herself by taking in its pretty surroundings.

"Is that a complaint?" His question startled her. But when she glanced over, she realized a small smile tugged at his lips as he studied her.