we proceed, provided I agree not to unduly distress your father?’
‘Of course. This way, my lord. Follow me.’
Good Lord, her tone was positively chivvying. Again Paul wanted to smile. He hadn’t been chivvied since nursery days and never with success.
Miss Gibson led him down the hall and pushed open a dark, wood-panelled door. Sir George’s study was small and full of books piled not only on shelves, but in haphazard stacks on the floor and desk. A fire crackled but did not draw properly and smoke hung in blue-grey wisps, scenting the air. A clock ticked, the steady, methodical beat of an old timepiece.
‘Father, may I present Lord Wyburn? He is Lady Wyburn’s stepson,’ Miss Gibson said.
Sir George sat at a desk in the far corner. He wore a shabby, ill-fitting nankeen jacket and appeared small, although that might have been the effect of the books and papers piled about him.
‘A timely interruption.’ He stood, running his hand across his balding head and looking at Paul over gilt-framed half-spectacles. ‘Just managed to finish a particularly difficult passage. But most edifying, most edifying. Now what can I do for you, my lord? I’d wager you want to reassure yourself that I have no evil intent, eh? Not likely to run off with the family silver?’
Paul’s eyebrows rose. Sir George’s sharp eyes, mobile face and the quick movements of his hands gave the impression of considerable energy coiled within his small frame.
Moreover, the Gibson family had breached, in one afternoon, more rules of etiquette than he’d experienced in years of Continental travel.
‘I wouldn’t be quite so blunt,’ he said.
‘I would. I would. No point beating about the bush, I always say. Time’s too precious. And I don’t blame you in the slightest. Lady Wyburn’s much too generous. Much too generous. Do take a seat and I’ll answer any question you care to pose. Fire away while Rilla fetches tea.’
With a wry smile, Paul sat.
* * *
Grabbing the copper kettle, Rilla hurried from the kitchen into the scullery and pumped, the handle whining as icy droplets splattered over her hands.
Bother. She was shaking. Even visits from her father’s gambling gentlemen had not left her so...so...discombobulated.
Of course, it was that vision. It was the sight of that rain-spattered lake.
No, it was the man also—his dark good looks, that feeling of sadness which seemed a part of him and the way he made all else dwindle to unimportance.
Rilla picked up her mother’s rosebud cup. She ran her finger across its rim. The gilt had worn off and the china was so fragile as to be translucent.
It would have been better if Imogene had met him. She had poise and would not be scrabbling up trees—
Imogene!
Rilla gulped. She’d quite forgotten her younger sister. She put down the cup, hurrying to the staircase that led to the bedchambers upstairs.
‘Imogene! The viscount’s here!’
Imogene flung open her door with unaccustomed haste. The scent of rose water spilled from the room as she stepped on to the hall landing. ‘The viscount? Lord Wyburn? Here? What’s he like?’
‘Judgemental and unhappy.’
Imogene started, her blue eyes widening. ‘He said so?’
Rilla wished she hadn’t spoken. ‘No,’ she admitted after pause.
‘Then why do think he is unhappy?’
Rilla hesitated. She rubbed her hands unnecessarily across the fabric of her gown. ‘I—um—felt it.’
‘Felt? No.’ Imogene’s voice was high with strain. ‘It has been years almost.’
Eleven months.
‘It was nothing. I am making too much of it, honestly,’ Rilla said, hating to see her sister’s worry. ‘It was my imagination. And I’m quite well now.’
‘You’re still pale.’
‘From my fall, I’m sure.’
‘You fell? Are you hurt?’ Imogene’s voice rose again, threaded with anxiety as she noticed a pink scratch on Rilla’s forearm.
Rilla followed her gaze. ‘It’s nothing. Look, you go and charm him. Convince him that we are not hoydens while I make tea.’
‘And you’ll not dwell on—on feelings?’
‘I will concentrate entirely on the tea. You go. The gentlemen are in the study.’
‘You couldn’t lure Father out to the drawing room?’ Imogene asked as they started back down the stairs.
‘I didn’t even try.’
Halfway down, they heard the kitchen door open. Mrs Marriot must be back. The housekeeper always visited her sister every Thursday.
‘Good,’ Imogene said. ‘Let her make tea while you tidy yourself.’
Instinctively, Rilla touched her unmanageable hair. She’d never liked red hair. Witch hair. That is what the village children had called it.
She nodded, returning upstairs without comment. She cared nothing for beauty. The last thing she wanted was to attract a man.
But she must look sane. Above all else, she must look sane.
Rilla entered the study anxiously, but everyone seemed congenial. Imogene sat ensconced in the window seat. Their father had pulled his chair from behind the desk and was discussing the antiquities. The viscount, who had risen at her entrance, was smiling and not, at present, asking anyone pointed questions about the cost of a London début.
‘Refreshments will be here shortly,’ she said, a little breathlessly.
Her father nodded. ‘Good, good. Make yourself comfy, m’dear. I was relating an anecdote from my most recent translation.’
He waved the papers in his hand and dust motes sparkled, dancing in a shaft of light.
The only vacant seat was on the sofa beside Lord Wyburn. Rilla hesitated. She caught his eye, but found his expression unreadable.
She swallowed and stared fixedly at the brocade upholstery. Her father waved the papers with an agitated motion. ‘Do sit, m’dear.’
Rilla sat. The viscount sat. The cushioning creaked. She had ample room and yet she felt conscious of his nearness—his muscled thighs, his fingers splayed across the worsted cloth of his trousers, even the heat of his body.
This
