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‘Really?’ Irritation was turning to downright annoyance. ‘And you’re speaking from experience, I suppose? Are you married, Martin?’
‘Was married, sir. She died twelve years ago. Cholera.’
‘Oh.’ He froze with his arms halfway into a black-superfine jacket. ‘I had no idea. I’m sorry, Martin.’
‘It was a long time ago, sir.’
‘I’m still sorry.’ He put a hand on the other man’s shoulder. ‘From now on you have my permission to give as much advice as you see fit. Feel free to beat it into me if necessary.’
‘I wouldn’t dream of it, sir. I never saw you lose a fight yet.’
‘Never?’ He made a cynical face, but Martin’s expression didn’t alter.
‘You didn’t lose that one, sir. You did the right thing.’
Lance squeezed his shoulder and then limped his way down the stairs. In their five years together, Martin had never once mentioned a woman, and definitely not a wife, though he’d known about every tawdry indiscretion of his master’s. How little attention had he been paying to the man who’d served him so loyally? As if he needed any more proof of his own self-centredness? Perhaps Miss Harper was more intelligent than the rest after all. Perhaps she’d been right to run away from a man like him...
She was waiting in the hallway when he arrived, sitting by the fireplace with her hands folded neatly in her lap, a model of self-contained calm and tranquillity. Considering the situation, he had to admire her poise, but then he was starting to admire a lot of things about her. He was starting to remember what he’d seen in her the first time...
‘I don’t understand this.’ She caught sight of him and pointed to a crest above the fireplace. ‘It says 1832.’
‘That’s when the house was built.’
‘This house?’ She got to her feet and looked around as if she were seeing the hall with new eyes. ‘But it looks so old. I thought it must be Tudor at least.’
‘It’s supposed to. They even weathered the stone to make it look older. My mother was a voracious reader of Sir Walter Scott. Though I believe her favourite writer was Malory.’
‘Arthurian legends?’ She burst into a smile as her gaze settled on the largest and most central piece of furniture. ‘You have a round table!’
‘My mother’s version of it, yes.’ He watched her changing expression with interest. There it was again, the effect he’d noticed the first time they’d met, the radiant silvery shimmer that seemed to envelop her whole being when she smiled. Only the effect seemed even more powerful this time.
‘And you’re Lancelot!’ She spun towards him gleefully.
‘I’m afraid so.’ He made a face. ‘Just don’t expect me to answer to it. Most people call me Lance. You can, too, if you want.’
She didn’t acknowledge the offer. ‘It could have been worse. Wasn’t there a Sir Lamorak?’
‘And Bedivere.’
‘And Bors.’
‘Imagine if I’d had more brothers.’ He quirked an eyebrow. ‘I suppose calling you Violet is out of the question, then? Or shall I call you Guinevere instead?’
‘I remember your mother.’ She appeared not to notice his question either, looking thoughtful instead. ‘She visited our house sometimes with your father when I was a child. She was kind to me.’
‘She was a kind person.’
‘She even brought me a doll once. I think she’d noticed I didn’t have many toys. I played with it for years... I was very sorry when she died.’
He cleared his throat. How had they got on to this topic? He was supposed to be wooing her, for pity’s sake, but she seemed determined to be serious.
‘She caught a chill that turned into a fever.’ He tried to keep his voice matter-of-fact. ‘Two weeks later, she was dead.’
‘I’m sorry. My mother had some kind of fever, too, I think.’
‘You don’t know?’
‘No.’ Her brow creased slightly. ‘I was never quite sure what happened. My father used to tell people she died when I was born, but I remember her. She was there, and then she was just...gone. He rarely spoke about her and no one else was allowed to either. After a while, it seemed strange to ask.’
