thought the dreams were finished when he’d gotten over his illness. Why were they coming again? And this latest phenomenon? It had been no dream; he’d been awake. What did it mean?
He was in England now. Somehow he’d thought nothing could follow him here.
Sky slept late the next morning. The bright sunshine made him laugh at his foolish terrors of the previous night. After a good breakfast, as he sat in his father’s office going over papers given him by his father’s solicitor, he was able to forget it completely.
A soft knock on the door interrupted his concentration.
“Yes?” he called out.
The butler opened the door. “Lady Althea has come to pay her respects. Would you like me to show her in? I have put her in the morning room.”
Tertius swore under his breath. He had no desire to see his half sister. What did she want? He thought he’d never have to see her again once she reached her majority and left the family seat of her own accord.
“Very well,” he finally said, as the butler stood awaiting his decision. “Show her in here.” Let her see he was busy and couldn’t take time for a family reunion.
A few minutes later the young woman entered and stood by the door without moving farther into the room. The door closed softly behind her, and he was left facing the sibling he hadn’t seen in over ten years.
She hadn’t changed much, he noted, except for her unfashionable attire. She, too, was in mourning for their brother, Edmund.
“Hello, Tertius.”
The very tenor of her voice exasperated him. It reminded him of some fearful servant, ready to cringe at its master’s raised voice. It enraged him, since she’d never been mistreated by his family. On the contrary, she’d received every largesse.
He rose slowly from his desk and came toward her. “Hello, Althea. How’ve you been keeping?” he asked in an offhand tone as he motioned her to a chair.
She seated herself and loosened her bonnet strings. “Very well, thank you. I only just heard you had returned or I would have been by earlier.”
“No hurry. I won’t be going anywhere soon.”
“I’m sorry about Edmund. It was a tragic loss.”
He inclined his head a fraction to acknowledge the condolence. “Still shaming the family name with those Methodist practices?” he couldn’t help asking as he flicked a speck of lint off the leg of his pantaloons, pretending a carelessness he was far from feeling.
He watched the color creep over her cheeks. Her hair, the same burnished gold he remembered, was no longer in two pigtails, but pulled back into a tight chignon. No loose curls framed her face. Not for pious Althea. How dare she pretend such holiness when her roots were so tainted? Time and distance had not diminished the impotent rage he felt every time he thought about her origins.
“I am still at the mission,” she said quietly. “I don’t believe I am shaming the Pembrokes in any way. I never took the family name. There is no reason for anyone to connect me to your family.”
“Yes, so Father told me,” he drawled. “You go simply by ‘Miss Althea Breton.’ How noble of you to carry the burden of your illegitimacy so bravely on your small shoulders.”
She smiled at him, a smile that struck him as resigned, and he felt renewed annoyance.
“I don’t carry any burden except those the Lord gives me, and that usually has to do with people you don’t know nor will ever chance to know.”
He said nothing but sat beating a tattoo against his pant leg, awaiting the reason of her visit. Was she going to ask for some donation for her charitable work? Hadn’t Father already been more than generous in his settlement on her?
“Your father sent a note letting me know of your return.”
“Our father, don’t you mean? Isn’t that what he wants you to call him? As well as take your rightful place among us and let the world know your true parentage now that Mother is gone?”
She swallowed and looked down at her clasped hands. “I’m sorry, Tertius. I have no desire to hurt either you or your mother’s memory. I usually still refer to Father as my guardian. I still think of him in that way,” she added with a small smile.
“How nice of you to consider my mother’s sensibilities,” he sneered.
She ignored the gibe and instead asked, “Did you have a good journey back?”
“The seas were calm for the most part,” he replied, a part of him regretting his lack of manners. What was the matter with him? It wasn’t Althea’s fault who her parents were. But he’d never been able to stop blaming her for having been so blatantly thrust under his mother’s nose. The late marchioness had been forced to endure the presence of a child who so clearly was not a “ward,” but the result of one of her husband’s many indiscretions.
“Father said you had been ill, and that’s why you couldn’t come any sooner,” Althea continued.
“Yes, that is so. But I’m fully recovered now.”
“I’m glad. You—you look thin,” she said in the soft, hesitant tone that never failed to irk him.
He shrugged. “So everyone tells me.” He made a point of pulling out his watch and snapping it open, wanting above anything for this interview to be over. He felt out of sorts and ill-humored. It was the poor night he’d had that was making him behave so surly.
“I didn’t mean to interrupt you at your work,” she said at once. “I merely wanted to welcome you back and tell you how sorry I was about Edmund.”
He felt another twinge of guilt at his incivility. He was quite some years older than she—at least a decade—so he hadn’t had much contact with her growing up. But whenever he’d come home from school, he’d catch glimpses of her. His father seemed to keep her well hidden on the large estate.
She’d always been cowering behind somebody’s apron, usually a housekeeper’s or servant’s, those shy eyes looking out at him, a thumb stuck in her mouth.
He studied her critically. Her black dress with its narrow white ruffle high at the neck made her look older than her twenty-three or twenty-four years.
“How old are you now, Althea?” he asked abruptly.
She looked surprised at the question. “Twenty-four,” she answered softly.
Tertius hated that diffidence. It had always annoyed him and brought out the worst in him. “You look older,” he lied. In truth, she still looked young; it was her clothing and hairstyle that added years.
She didn’t seem affected by the implied insult. He preferred a more spirited person. An image of Lady Gillian rushing to save a stray flashed through his mind. Her passionate defense of the mangy mutt stirred something in him like nothing else had in a long time.
“You look older than I remember,” she said with a gentle smile. “You were a dashing young man of five-and-twenty when you left,
