His mouth curved in a smile that wasn’t very nice. “A tragedy, then, his death.”
“Yes, it was.”
“You were married young?”
“Only eighteen.” Her eyes dropped.
“And the marriage was happy.”
“Extremely happy.” Her voice was defiant, the lie transparent.
“What did he look like?”
“I…” She wrapped her arms about herself. “Please, might we change the subject?”
“Certainly,” he drawled. “Where did you live in London?”
“I’ve told you.” Her voice was steadier now. “I was in Lady Vale’s household.”
“Of course,” he murmured. “My mistake. I keep forgetting your vast experience in running a household.”
“It’s not vast,” she whispered. “You know that.”
For a moment, they were silent and only the wind whistling around the corner of the castle gave voice.
Then she said very quietly, with her face still turned away, “It’s just that I… I need a place to stay right now.”
And something inside him surged in triumph. He had her. She couldn’t leave. It made no sense, this feeling of triumph. He’d been urging her to go ever since she’d arrived, but somehow the knowledge that she had to stay, and that as an honorable gentleman he had to let her stay, filled him with contentment.
Not that he let it show. “I confess, Mrs. Halifax, that I am surprised by one thing.”
“What is that?”
He bent closer, his mouth nearly brushing her lemon-scented hair. “I would’ve thought a lady of your beauty would be besieged by suitors.”
She turned her head, and their faces were suddenly only inches apart. He felt her breath brush across his lips as she spoke. “You find me beautiful.”
Her voice was curiously flat.
He cocked his head, eyeing the smooth brow, the lush mouth, and the fine wide eyes. “Devastatingly so.”
“And you probably think beauty sufficient reason to marry a woman.” Her tone was bitter now.
What had the mysterious Mr. Halifax done to his wife? “No doubt most men do.”
“They never think of a woman’s disposition,” she muttered. “Her likes and dislikes, her fears and hopes, her very soul.”
“Don’t they?”
“No.” Her beautiful eyes had grown dark and tragic. The wind blew a curling lock of hair across her face.
“Poor Mrs. Halifax,” he mocked softly. He gave in to impulse and raised his left hand—his unmaimed hand—and stroked the lock of hair back away from her face. Her skin was as fine as silk. “How terrible to be so lovely.”
A frown creased her unblemished brow. “You said most men.”
“Did I?” He let his hand drop.
She looked up at him, her eyes were quite perceptive now. “Don’t you consider beauty to be the most important criteria in a wife?”
“Ah, but you’ve forgotten my aspect, I’m afraid. It’s in the natural order of things that a lovely wife will either stray or come to hate an ugly husband. A man as revolting as I would be an idiot to attach himself to a beautiful woman.” He smiled into her mesmerizingly lovely eyes. “And I am many things, Mrs. Halifax, but an idiot is not one of them.”
He bowed and turned to stride back into the castle, leaving Mrs. Halifax, a lonely, desperately tempting siren, behind him.
“WHEN WILL WE go home?” Jamie asked the next afternoon. He picked up a rock and threw it.
The rock didn’t go very far, but Abigail frowned, anyway. “Don’t do that.”
“Why not?” Jamie whined.
“Because you might hit someone. Or something.”
Jamie looked about the old stable yard, empty except for themselves and a few sparrows. “Who?”
“I don’t know!”
Abigail wanted to throw a rock herself, but ladies didn’t do such things. And besides, they were supposed to be beating an old rug. Mama’d made one of the footmen put up a line across a corner of the yard, and a row of rugs now hung from it, all waiting to be beaten. Abigail’s arms were sore, but she took a swing at the rug anyway with the broom she held. It felt almost good to hit the rug. A great cloud of dust flew out.
Jamie squatted to pick up another rock. “I want to go home.”
“You’ve already said that over and over again,” Abigail said irritably.
“But I do.” He stood and threw the rock. It hit the stable’s wall and clattered onto the gray stones that paved the stable yard. “We never had to beat rugs at our old house. And Miss Cummings took us to the park sometimes. There’s nothing to do here but work.”
“Well, we can’t go home,” Abigail shot back. “And I told you—”
“Oy!” The voice came from behind them.
Abigail looked over her shoulder, still holding the broom.
Mr. Wiggins was trundling toward them, his ginger hair waving in the breeze as his stumpy arms waved in the air. “Watcha doin’, throwin’ rocks about like that? Are you soft in the head?”
Abigail straightened. “He’s not soft—”
Mr. Wiggins snorted like a surprised horse. “If’n throwin’ rocks about that could hit anybody, includin’ me, isn’t soft in th’ head, I don’t know what is.”
“You don’t talk that way!” Jamie said. He’d stood and his hands were balled by his sides.
“Don’t tawk whot?” Mr. Wiggins mimicked their accent. “Whot’re yew, a soft-headed London ponce?”
“My father’s a duke!” Jamie shouted, red-faced.
Abigail froze, horrified.
But Mr. Wiggins merely threw back his head and laughed. “A duke, eh? Then what does that make you? A dukeling? Ha! Well, dukeling or not, don’t throw them stones.”
And he walked off, still chuckling.
She waited, holding her breath until he was out of sight; then she swung on her brother, whispering furiously, “Jamie! You know we weren’t to say anything about the duke.”
“He called me a ponce.” Jamie’s face was still red. “And the duke is our father.”
“But Mama said we mustn’t let anyone know that.”
“I hate it here!” Jamie put his head down like a bull and ran out of the stable yard.
Or at least he started to. At the corner of the castle, he stumbled headlong into Sir Alistair coming the other way.