both bored and lonely in his home.
“Yes, thank you. I have been very well looked after.”
“And yesterday was Christmas Day,” he said, his voice regretful. “I’m afraid I didn’t even have an opportunity to shop for a present, but I do have a surprise for you which I hope will help in some way to make up for that lack.”
“A surprise?” she echoed hesitantly. Surprise?
“As you know, most young women your age have already been introduced into society. Since your father was away with the army, I understand you have not yet been formally brought out.”
“Brought out?” Anne repeated, bewildered by the introduction of this topic. Surely, he didn’t mean…
“In London,” Mr. Sinclair clarified.
Anne swallowed, allowing the images that the very name of the capital evoked to fill her head. Provincial she might be, but even the girls at Fenton School knew about the famed London Season. Several of them had been quite confident of the opportunities that would be afforded them by that experience. And confident that it was in their near future, as soon as their schooling was complete.
Anne had listened to their talk with idle interest, knowing her father would never go to the trouble or expense of arranging for her own coming out. And as far as she was aware, she had no relatives who might be called upon to shoulder that burden.
She had put the possibility from her mind years ago, quite content with the direction of her life. And when Mrs. Kemp had talked about the wonderful opportunities that were opening up for her, this was one which had never even occurred to her.
“The Season starts in a few months,” Ian continued. “I’m afraid there is a great deal of preparation required if we are to be ready in time.”
The Season. The words seemed to reverberate inside Anne’s head, almost blocking the rest of his words.
“Mr. Sinclair, I assure you that I have no desire to be brought out. I am quite content—”
“I believe it would have been your father’s wish, Miss Darlington. After all, it is only what is expected for a young woman of your class. I know it is Mrs. Kemp’s wish. She was quite clear on that score. And I have promised her that as your guardian, I should see to it that you were given this advantage.”
Anne drew breath, preparing to again refuse, before she remembered her own promise to the headmistress. Headstrong or not, I shall endeavor to do whatever Mr. Sinclair thinks is best. She, too, had given her word.
And after all, she would spend the rest of her life at Fenton School. Although she was truly not interested in being presented to society, she was also not sure she was ready to return forever to the only world she had really ever known.
Actually, Anne admitted, she was suddenly reluctant to leave Sinclair Hall, despite the loneliness of the days she had spent here. After all, now that Mr. Sinclair was recovered—
“My brother, who has excellent taste,” her guardian continued, interrupting that foolish notion, “has recommended a modiste. On his advice I have sent for her to come here and make the preliminary measurements for your gowns. Of course, we shall be in London in time for the fittings.”
“In London for the Season,” Anne said faintly, feeling more and more as if she had wandered into some bizarre dream. “We are going to London?”
“Within the month,” he said, smiling at her again, “if you are willing to trust me to convey you safely there, considering your first unfortunate journey under my guardianship. I promise to take better care of you in the future.”
She truly doubted anyone could have taken better care of her that terrible night than he had. And he had done so at a cost to himself that he would not even acknowledge. Or allow her to.
“I would trust you with my life, Mr. Sinclair,” she said.
And watched his eyes change again, the gentle teasing fading from them as they held a long heartbeat on hers. For the first time since she had entered the room, self-absorbed with what she wanted to say, she allowed herself to study his face.
If one looked past the rather obvious effects of the fight, which included a fading bruise around his right eye, and an almost healed gash along his left cheekbone, the marks of his recent illness were there as well. And according to Mrs. Martin, that was never to be a topic for conversation. In truth, Anne could not but admire him for that.
“Thank you,” he said with the smile she had learned to value for its kindness, even in the brief time she had known him. “I am delighted by your trust, Anne. May I call you Anne?”
She had never been called anything else, not even by the youngest girls in the school. Given the difference in their ages and his position in her life, it seemed natural somehow that he should call her by her Christian name.
“Of course,” she said. “But…should I continue to call you Mr. Sinclair?” And realized belatedly, again by watching his eyes change, that she had made a mistake. “I suppose anything else would be improper. I didn’t mean to be forward,” she said, stumbling for an explanation. “Perhaps—” She stopped, cutting the words off because it seemed this, too, might give offense.
“Perhaps what?”
“I’m sure that…That is…”
“My name is Ian,” he said.
“Then…Uncle Ian?” she suggested hesitantly.
His eyes widened slightly, just as they had when Margaret’s trembling finger had identified Anne as his ward.
“Do you know,” he said, his voice suddenly full of an amusement she didn’t understand, “I really don’t believe I should be able to endure it if you do.”
“I beg your pardon,” Anne said, bewildered and embarrassed.
“Forgive me, Anne. You may call me Ian, or even Mr. Sinclair, if you are more comfortable with that. But when I think of my brother’s reaction to your calling me Uncle Ian…Truthfully, I beg you, that I am not willing to endure. Not even for my ward.”
“Too ornate,” the Countess of Dare said, her blue eyes lifting from the drawing in the fashion book she and the dressmaker were perusing, their fair heads very close together. “Something more classic, I think, given her height and coloring.”
Anne was still standing where they had placed her, on a stool in the middle of her bedroom, dressed only in her chemise and petticoat. She had been humiliated by the rather threadbare appearance of those garments, especially when confronted with the cool, blond elegance of the Countess of Dare.
Neither she nor the modiste had commented on the patches and darns, however, seeming to be far more concerned with thumbing through the pictures in the books the woman had brought from London. Pictures which Anne had not yet been allowed to see. It seemed she was merely a bystander to this process.
“This perhaps,” the dressmaker suggested, and the eyes of both women surveyed Anne’s form again, moving from head to toe.
“Only if the color is changed. And I don’t like the trim,” Elizabeth Sinclair said. “Braided
