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Chapter Three
“NERVES,” THE DOCTOR EXPLAINED. “Has she been under strain or duress?”
Deana glanced through the open bedroom at door at her mother, who lay in bed with eyes closed, a furrow upon her brow.
“Nothing more than customary,” Deana replied. “She seemed well enough yester evening when I left. Though we did have that visit from the collector this morning, I wonder that would be all? Aunt Lydia?”
Her aunt kept her gaze lowered. “We did receive a notice by courier—just after you had left, Deana. If the rent is not received within a sennight, we must seek other accommodations.”
Deana paled. “But I thought we had been granted a stay?”
Lydia shook her head. “Your mother received a letter last week that we have exhausted the reprieve. If we do not pay all that is owed, we shall, in short, be thrown out.”
“How did I not know this?”
“Your mother wanted your attentions focused, er, elsewhere.”
“This is grave indeed,” the doctor said. “Your mother is in no condition to be moved. Have you no funds at your disposal?”
It would take an incredible streak of luck at the gaming hall to amass the amount needed. They had long since exhausted the kindness of family, mostly distant, and friends, which had grown fewer and fewer. She knew of only one man for whom the sum would be no hardship. Perhaps Lord Rockwell would take pity upon her once more, but how could she expect his generosity when she had rebuffed him
the other night? She doubted she had the courage to approach him. The thought of asking for his charity made her cringe inside. Pride won over pragmatism.
“I am sorry for your circumstances,” the Doctor said, “but to keep from worsening your mother’s state, you must not cause her further distress.”
“What are we to do?” Lydia cried, wringing her hands, after the Doctor had left.
“Fear not, a solution will avail itself,” she assured her aunt.
But she very much doubted her own lie.
* * * * *
Putting down his pen, he leaned his head over the back of his chair in his study and closed his eyes. He did not like the consternation he felt. He would do well to forget Miss Herwood—as he had intended a year ago. She had made it clear she wanted nothing beyond a chaste friendship with him. And it was just as well. He had a duty to Lucille and the barony. Perhaps it was time he renewed his efforts to seek a wife.
Yes, he would forget Miss Herwood once and for all this time.
“Miss Herwood, my lord.”
Halsten sat at attention to face his steward. “Pardon?”
“A Miss Herwood is here to see you.”
“Show her in.”
He strode to the sideboard and poured himself a glass of sherry. This was most unexpected. Remembering how discreet she had been with her first visit here in the dead of night, he wondered what could have brought her to see him in the light of day?
“Lord Rockwell.”
He turned to see her standing at the threshold, the veil of her bonnet pulled low over her face, but he could make out her bottom lip. The thought of taking that mouth in his warmed his loins. He threw back the sherry.
“Miss Herwood.”
He noticed the tight manner in which she clutched her reticule.
“May I offer you a glass of port?” he asked.
Her mouth quirked to the side. “I thought you disapproved of my drinking?”
