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“Your center of gravity is off,” he said with a faint smile. “Considerably.”
She stuck out her tongue at him, which only made him laugh.
As he helped her to the door, he bent his head to murmur in her ear. “By the way, I intend to have a very frank discussion with your aunt about this situation.”
“You will not,” she hissed. “It’s none of your business.”
“Och, don’t fash yourself, lass,” he said, teasing her in a heavy brogue. “Ye ken I’m on yer side.”
She didn’t doubt it, but the truth was the last thing she could—or would—ever tell him.
Chapter Three
When Royal entered the parlor after dinner, Lady Margaret leveled a scowl at him from her perch by the fireplace.
“Your visit is monstrously ill timed, sir,” she complained again. “We’ve gone to exhausting lengths to protect my niece’s privacy, and now you’ve upended everything.” The old gal snorted. “Just like a Kendrick. Always causing trouble.”
“Not me,” he protested. “I’m the good Kendrick.”
“Ha,” said Lady Margaret.
“Ha,” Ainsley echoed from the chaise, her teacup resting on her belly.
Still in the same gown she’d worn this afternoon, she’d kicked off her shoes and propped her swollen feet on a stack of pillows. Although never a high stickler in terms of behavior, Ainsley had always been fanatical about her appearance. She’d never looked anything less than perfect, down to the last button and bow. The fact that she wouldn’t bother to change her dress for dinner, and that she casually displayed her stocking feet in front of a man, told Royal volumes about her state of mind.
To him, she would always be spectacular, no matter what she wore. If anything, pregnancy had enhanced her beauty, turning her into a lush goddess of impending motherhood. Yet it was clear she was in a great deal of discomfort, and he couldn’t help but be worried. She’d all but winced her way through dinner, constantly shifting in her chair and barely touching her food.
Royal hated seeing her so wan and forlorn, and he had to repress the overwhelming impulse to gather her into his arms and rock her like a fretful child. Acting on that instinct, however, might earn him a dainty fist to the jaw. Like him, Ainsley hated coddling.
She hadn’t minded a wee bit of coddling this afternoon, before they started talking about Cringlewood, but then she’d turned into a harridan. She’d been angry with him for wanting an explanation. Also, if he didn’t miss his mark, she’d been panicked, and that made him even more determined to get to the bottom of the mystery. If the marquesshadharmed her in any way, Royal would see to it that the bastard faced the consequences.
For now, though, he had to do what was best for Ainsley, which meant soothing rather than upsetting her. Lady Margaret had made that abundantly clear during their chat this afternoon—a chat that had quickly turned into a high-handed lecture. She’d dodged all his questions about Cringlewood, making it clear that the marquess was none of his business.
Royal had no intention of giving up on the matter. But retribution, if required, would obviously have to wait.
“Again, my lady, I beg your pardon for surprising you,” Royal said as he lowered himself into the matching club chair next to Lady Margaret. “But I wouldagainlike to point out that none of this is my fault. How was I to know I would be walking into so dramatic a situation? No sane person could have expected this.”
“You know, I should just have the footman throw you out on your ear and be done with it,” Ainsley said tartly.
“You’d have to find him first,” Royal said.
Hector had finally surfaced for dinner. The lone footman was at least sixty years old, wore an elaborately curled wig, and dressed in black and gold livery that had obviously seen better days. He was also, as Lady Margaret had explained, quite deaf and so rarely heard the bell. After depositing a number of plates on the sideboard, he’d disappeared for the rest of the meal. Royal had served their food, since Lady Margaret couldn’t be expected to do so and Ainsley could barely get out of her chair.
Lady Margaret’s gaze drifted thoughtfully over him. “I do believe you’d make a rather good footman, Mr. Kendrick. You’ve got a grand set of shoulders and lovely leg muscles.” She waggled her wiry gray brows at him. “I’d quite like to see you in livery.”
Ainsley smothered a laugh. “Have some tea, Royal. You look about to choke.”
As he poured a cup, Lady Margaret went back to glaring at him. “But don’t think your considerable manly attributes excuse the impropriety of your sudden appearance on my doorstep. My niece is correct. We should have Hector evict you, forthwith.”
Royal simply gave Lady Margaret a bland smile and handed her a teacup.
“I was only joking, Aunt,” Ainsley said. “Since he’s here now, he might as well be of some use.”
“I’m happy to help in any way I can,” he said after getting himself a cup. “Even serving as footman when necessary.”
He took a sip. It was a splendid gunpowder tea, expertly brewed. Lady Margaret was eccentric, but she didn’t stint on comfort. Dinner had been excellent, the wine French and expensive, and the after-dinner port top-notch. He’d had ample opportunity to enjoy it too, since Lady Margaret had insisted he remain at the dining table in solitary splendor for a half hour while the ladies repaired to the drawing room to await the tea service.
If not for the pressing nature of Ainsley’s situation, he would have found the entire episode irritatingly comical.
