clear-sighted, or merely endowed with more than her share of feminine wiles. Regrettably, wiles had been left out of Alys’s makeup. Perhaps her unwanted dimples were what she had been given instead “I gather that you want this future husband to keep you on a pedestal?”
“I wouldn’t mind a low one.” Merry looked down at her hands, flexing the fingers as if inspecting her carefully groomed nails. “When I find the right man, I’ll make sure he doesn’t regret his choice.” In a voice that for once was entirely serious, she added softly, “I do intend to be a very good wife, you know.”
Alys gave a nod of sudden understanding. What her ward really yearned for was security and comfort. Having lost both parents and her adoptive mother by the time she was fifteen, Merry’s ambitions were modest, practical ones rather than dreams of mad passion or social grandeur. Surely such a sensible young lady was unlikely to fall victim to the fleeting pleasures of a rake’s casual, lethal charm.
Relieved by the insight, Alys stood. “Our guest should arrive soon. I presume you will wait here so you can make a grand entrance?”
“But of course.” Merry laughed, gravity vanquished. “A new man in the neighborhood is an opportunity not to be wasted, even if he is rather stricken in years.”
Even though she knew Meredith was teasing, Alys shook her head in disbelief as she went down to the drawing room to await her guest. Stricken in years! Davenport looked like he could outride, outfight, and outwench any man in Dorsetshire.
She hoped he didn’t feel compelled to prove it.
Chapter 7
Reggie raised his hand to the knocker of Rose Hall, the steward’s residence, then hesitated. He had accepted the dinner invitation because he thought that anything would be better than another evening alone in the big house, but now he wasn’t so sure. Two young boys, an aspiring femme fatale, and a magnificent Amazon who despised him were odd company for a man who usually socialized with hard-drinking sportsmen like himself.
Well, too late to retreat now. He grasped the knocker and rapped firmly.
The little housemaid that answered had a face that Reggie was beginning to recognize as typical Herald physiognomy. After she bobbed a quick curtsy, she wordlessly led him to the drawing room. It was not a large house, having no more than four or five bedrooms, but it was comfortable and well-maintained. Reggie had regularly visited the kitchen as a child. His father’s steward had a cook gifted at making tarts, and Reggie had ingratiated himself in the manner of all small boys.
Miss Weston was waiting in the drawing room. She rose at his arrival. Her height and natural dignity made her look like a queen, even in her extremely conservative dark brown dress. Reggie spent a moment wondering how she would look in Gypsy red, with her hair tumbling around her shoulders rather than in a no-nonsense coronet. As he bowed, he decided that she would be quite splendid.
Smiling, she said, “I thought you might like a few minutes of peace before the children join us. Would you like a sherry?”
Sherry was hardly his favorite drink, but since it was better than nothing, he accepted. As she poured two glasses, Reggie felt an insistent pressure on his shin. He looked down to see a very large, very shaggy cat twining suggestively around his ankles. With a small sound of distaste, he stepped back. The cat followed, apparently determined to be his best friend.
His hostess turned and saw his predicament. “Sorry. I thought Attila was safely out of the way. He must have been lurking under the sofa.” She handed Reggie a drink, then bent to scoop up her pet “I gather that you don’t like cats?”
Even for a woman as tall as Alys Weston, the beast was a very substantial armful, a patchwork of striped and white fur with great curving whiskers that framed an expression of supreme disdain. “Not much,” Reggie admitted. “They’re sneaky, unreliable, and selfish.”
“That’s true,” Alys said gravely, “and they have many other fine qualities as well.”
For a moment he wasn’t sure he had heard correctly. Nothing earlier in the day had led him to believe that his steward numbered a sense of humor among her formidable virtues. But a suspicion of dimple showed in her right cheek; he had noticed earlier that it came out before the left one. “Perhaps I don’t like cats because they’re too much like me,” he said with a grin.
Laughing, she took the cat to the door and dumped him, protesting, on the other side. “Go down to the kitchen, Attila. There must be something there to interest you.” Closing the door before her pet could whisk back in, she turned to her guest. “So you’re sneaky, unreliable, and selfish?”
“Oh, indubitably,” he said, sipping at his sherry. “And I have many other fine qualities as well.”
This time both dimples showed as she sat gracefully in one of the brocade-covered chairs. “What are your other fine qualities?” Then she paused, a stricken expression on her face. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked that.”
“Because it’s too personal a question, or because you’re afraid of what I might consider a fine quality?” Reggie asked as he took a seat opposite his steward.
“The latter reason, of course,” she said sweetly, then looked even more stricken at her unruly tongue.
Taking pity on her embarrassment, Reggie said, “Since you are not on duty, nothing you say can be held against you. Although I must say, I prefer your insults to having you frown me down.”
“Lord,” she said with a guilty start. “Is that what I was doing all day?”
“Yes,” he replied succinctly.
“It’s because of my eyebrows, you know,” she said earnestly. “Even when I’m in a good mood, people often think I’m about to bite them.”
“And when you’re in a bad mood?”
“Oh, then they fly in all directions.”
“I suppose that looking fearsome is a useful trait, given the work you do,” he said thoughtfully. “It can’t have been easy to get the Strickland tenants and workers to accept your authority.”
“There have been problems,” Alys admitted. “It is not a simple matter where one victory wins the war. They would take orders more easily if I owned the estate, but they don’t quite approve of a female steward. Still, after four years the tenants and I understand each other tolerably well.”
“I can understand their feelings. I don’t approve of you myself.” As she bridled, he raised one hand. “Nothing personal, but it’s a confounded nuisance that the ‘A’ in A. E. Weston doesn’t stand for Albert or Angus.” He studied her gravely. “If you value your reputation, you would be wise to look for another position.”
Alys froze, her sherry glass poised in midair halfway to her mouth. Then she lowered the glass, her face pale. “Are you discharging me?”
“No,” he said, feeling as guilty as if he’d struck her physically. “Just giving you some good advice.”
Relaxing fractionally, she said in a freezing tone, “In that case, just as you prefer to worry about your own dignity, leave me to worry about my reputation.”
“As
