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Satisfied with the results of this first meeting, Royce made to rise. “I'll go then, give you a chance to talk with her. I'm staying at a local inn, so I can return—”
“Wait.” Glynnis came to her feet in a flourish. “I appreciate how considerate you're being. But I know my daughter. The instant I tell her about this, she'll want to talk with you. So, if you don't mind waiting, I'll get Emma now. Just give me a few minutes alone with her. Then, I'll bring her to you. I'd be grateful if you'd explain the situation to her exactly as you did to me. Would that be too inconvenient, my lord?”
“No, of course not.”
In truth, Royce couldn't be more pleased. If he could eliminate a night of waiting, that might enab l e him to cut his trip by a full day.
And get him back to Medford Manor by tomorrow night.
“Thank you,” Glynnis was saying. “I’ll get Emma.” She turned to the dowager, frowned as she noticed the trembling of her hands. “Your Grace? Perhaps you should retire now. You're exhausted.”
The elderly woman nodded, even that gesture appearing to tire her. “If Lord Royce doesn't mind waiting alone, I think I will.”
“Please, go up with Miss Martin,” Royce said, assessing the situation quickly, and stepping forward to kiss the dowager's quivering hand. “I apologize for tiring you.”
“Don't apologize,” she said, her fingers tightening briefly in Royce's. She raised her eyes to his, and he saw the shimmer of tears glistening there. “You've brought me just what I needed. Now I can leave this world in peace. Thank you, sir.” With that, she accepted Glynnis's arm, leaning heavily against her as she came slowly to her feet. Pausing, she gestured weakly toward the sideboard. “Help yourself to a brandy. It will warm away the winter chill.''
“I will. Thank you.” Royce watched the two women walk away—Glynnis supporting the dowager's frail, aged frame—and he felt strangely moved by what had just taken place.
He blinked, stunned by his own reaction.
When had he started succumbing to sentiment?
He didn't need to explore that question to know its answer.
Breanna.
The thought of her brought his mind back to returning to Medford Manor by tomorrow night.
Swiftly, his mind raced, laying out plans. He'd reason with Emma now. Hopefully, if she was as curious about her father as Glynnis had implied, she'd agree to ride to Sussex and meet with him late tomorrow morning. That would give Royce the early morning hours to cheek out the Berkshire shops, and the remainder of the afternoon—after leaving Ryder's home—to cover the shops in Sussex. From there, he'd tide on to Surrey, chat with the shopkeepers before closing, then ride directly to Kent before nightfall.
To Kent—and to Breanna.
Royce gritted his teeth, acknowledging to himself that he had a lot to ponder with regard to Breanna Colby. Tonight, he promised himself. When he was alone in his room at the inn. There, he'd devote serious thought to what in the hell was happening between them, where this fixation was leading. And what in God's name he was feeling.
It was half past ten o'clock that night when Stacie shut the door to Breanna's temporary quarters, leaned back against it as if to bar her cousin from leaving, and announced, “All right, Breanna. That does it. I'm not waiting another instant. We've made up the room. We've brought in your sketches, your needlepoint, and all your favorite porcelain figures. It's as much home as it's going to be. Now talk to me.”
Breanna turned, placing her final statue—the horse she'd had since childhood—on the fireplace mantel. She raised her brows quizzically. “You know as much as I do. Damen is turning up the lamp in my chambers, then coming here to escort you to bed. Hibbert is sitting right outside this door, planning to guard it for the night. Wells is standing at his post like a stubborn sentry who refuses to rest. You and I are both expected to get some sleep, after which—”
“That's not what I'm talking about and you know it.” Stacie folded her arms across her breasts, giving her cousin a pointed look. “I've waited since the ball. And I'm not budging until you tell me what's going on between you and Royce Chadwick.”
A flush stained Breanna's cheeks. “Oh ... that.”
“Yes. That.” Stacie inclined her head. “It's even more serious than I thought. I can tell just by looking at you.”
Sighing, Breanna perched at the edge of her bed. “ I don't know how serious it is. I only know that I feel as if I'm being tossed about in a windstorm and I can't seem to break free or catch my breath. What's more, I'm not sure that I even want to.”
“That sounds suspiciously like love.”
Silence.
Stacie came to sit beside Breanna, taking her hand in hers. “Are you in love with Royce?”
Breanna gave a helpless shrug. “I've known him less than a fortnight.”
“That doesn't answer my question”
“I know.” Breanna stared down at their joined hands. “I think about him constantly. When he's in the room, I can scarcely look away. When we talk, if s as if we understand each other completely, despite the fact that we're so very different in so many ways. And when we touch...” A pause, as Breanna struggled to give voice to such intimate feelings. “When we touch, I lose myself entirely. I ache. I burn. I want things I never even imagined wanting. No, not wanting— needing. It's as if there's a whole different me inside, a person I don't even recognize but one Royce seems to know. Does that make any sense?”
