curious, Briony slewed round to discover herself the recipient of a faintly ironic grey-eyed gaze.
‘Not at all, sir,’ Mr Pettigrew assured, gesturing to the vacant chair beside Briony’s as he did so. ‘Do make yourself comfortable, Mr Kingsley. You remember Miss Winters, I trust?’
By the new arrival’s wholly impassive countenance Briony wouldn’t have known for sure whether this was true or not. She certainly hadn’t recognised him, however, and it took every ounce of self-control she possessed to stop herself gaping in astonishment as her late godmother’s sole nephew strolled leisurely over to the desk, removing his stylish beaver hat as he did so to reveal a healthy crop of slightly waving brown hair.
It had been a full ten years since the last time she had set eyes on Luke Kingsley; she was grudgingly obliged to own that the years had been favourably disposed towards him. Even the faint lines about his mouth and eyes didn’t detract from his good looks. If anything, they added more character to a face that had lost none of its attractive masculinity during the past decade.
Without conscious thought she stretched out her hand for him to take briefly in his own. ‘Of course I remember you, Miss Winters. But I hope you will not consider it ungallant of me to reveal that I do not believe I would have recognised you.’
‘Not at all, sir, for in truth I did not at first recognise you,’ she returned, sensible enough to accept that it would do her cause no good whatsoever to appear antagonistic towards the very person who would undoubtedly be in the position to throw her out on her ear, should he choose to take possession of the Manor immediately.
Grudgingly she was obliged silently to acknowledge, too, that he hadn’t attempted to retain possession of her fingers for longer than was politely acceptable for persons who were, to all intents and purposes, virtual strangers. Nor had he stared at her in any over-familiar fashion, come to that, attempting to ogle her feminine charms. Given his reputation where the fair sex was concerned, she was forced to own that this came as something of a surprise. Maybe, though, it was simply a matter of her not being to his taste, she reasoned, recalling all at once that he had considered her something of a tiresome nuisance years ago, before he had left the Manor to begin his studies at Oxford.
Perversely, this recollection rather pleased her, for although she sensibly recognised that open hostility would be most unwise, with the best will in the world she could not like him, nor easily forgive him for not attending the funeral of the woman who had done so much for him in his formative years.
‘Earlier this year,’ Mr Pettigrew began, studying the papers in his hand, and obliging Briony to favour him with her full attention once again, ‘Lady Ashworth paid me an unexpected visit, a few weeks after her last trip to London, and made some fundamental adjustments to her will. Now,’ he continued, after staring briefly at each of his listeners in turn, and all at once appearing faintly embarrassed, ‘apart from the few bequests to loyal servants and close friends, she declares that the house, together with the rest of her private fortune, be divided evenly between the two of you …’
Briony could scarce believe her ears. She knew her godmother had cared for her deeply, but never in her wildest imaginings had she supposed she would be left such a generous portion, enough to ensure her continued comfort for the rest of her life. She had wondered how she was going to maintain herself and earn a living, and had seriously considered Janet’s suggestion of setting up home together on the coast. Now it seemed she would have security for life!
She began to gnaw at her bottom lip in an attempt to stop it trembling. A great bubble of combined elation and poignancy rose within her, only to burst a moment later, when Mr Pettigrew added after the briefest of pauses,
‘… on condition that a wedding take place between the two main beneficiaries as soon as might reasonably be arranged after the reading of the will.’
Chapter Two
About to take off her bonnet, Briony gaped across the bedchamber, unable quite to believe her ears. She was still far from mistress of herself, but even so she would have hoped that the female who had been such a pillar of strength during the past two weeks or so would have entirely understood her reaction to what had transpired in Mr Pettigrew’s office earlier that day.
‘What on earth do you mean by saying it’s a godsend, Janet …? It’s nothing of the sort!’ Tossing the bonnet aside in disgust, Briony began to pace the room, a clear indication of her continuing highly agitated state. ‘I just cannot understand what possessed Godmama to consider such a ludicrous thing—marriage to that rakehell of a nephew of hers …? Why, it’s ludicrous! Contemptible! I can only suppose she wasn’t quite right in the attic when she had what was destined to be that final consultation with Mr Pettigrew.’
Concerned though she was, Janet couldn’t resist smiling at the no-nonsense choice of language, which had been so much a part of the younger woman’s character since girlhood. ‘There was nothing wrong with the mistress’s understanding, Miss Briony, as well you know,’ she admonished gently. ‘She possibly thought she was acting for the best. After all, miss, you can’t stay here by yourself. It wouldn’t be proper, not as young as you are. Besides which, I expect she was trying to be fair to both you and Master Luke.’
This was hardly destined to placate Briony, and it didn’t. ‘What, by uniting us both in a loveless marriage? I don’t consider that fair. I call it downright cruel, not to say preposterous!’ Wandering over to the window, she shook her head, still unable to believe her godmother had supposed such a union was conceivable. ‘Good gracious, Janet, apart from anything else, I don’t even like the fellow—have never cared much for him, for that matter. So what hope is there for a successful marriage between us? It’s doomed from the start.’
Janet, who had been occupying herself tidying the bedchamber, paused in the act of collecting the discarded black-taffeta bonnet, and gazed across the room at the slender figure staring broodingly out of the window.
‘Has he changed much, Miss Briony?’ she asked, curiosity having got the better of her. ‘I haven’t set eyes on Master Luke in … oh, must be ten years or more, but I remember him as a nice-natured, handsome lad, fearless, always ripe for any lark.’
‘Nice-natured and handsome?’ Briony repeated, once again unable to believe her ears. ‘He was never anything of the sort!’ she corrected vehemently. ‘He’d never permit me to accompany him whenever he went shooting or fishing. Nor would he ever let me anywhere near those precious horses of his.’
Janet gurgled unexpectedly. ‘And when you dared to take one of his hacks out that time, without permission, he tossed you in the lily pond upon your return to the house for daring to disobey him.’
This ill-timed reminder of an incident almost forgotten was hardly destined to improve Briony’s poor opinion of someone who had always figured in her mind as a tormentor and bully on those rare occasions when she had happened to think about him.
‘Good gracious! The wretch did as well! I’d almost forgotten all about that. Ha!’ she exclaimed triumphantly. ‘More reason, then, don’t you agree, not to attach myself to such an unconscionable bully? Like as not the rakehell would attain the greatest pleasure in taking a stick to me at the least provocation as soon as the knot was tied!’
‘Now, that he would never do!’ Janet parried, instantly coming to the gentleman’s defence. ‘I might not have seen him in a mort of years, but what I always says is, those that are good-natured as children are good-natured when they’re older. Oh, and he were such a handsome lad, as I recall,’ she went on, having fallen into a reminiscing mood. ‘Why, he had only to
