Oh, how she’d like to peel off the polite veneer and reveal his true nature. Prove she was right and stop her foolish heart’s flutters every time he sent that cool dark glance her way.
‘A pox on your sherry,’ Merry said with a quick laugh. ‘'Tis brandy for me. I vow I am still chilled to the bone. Perhaps you would prefer a dish of tea, my lord?’
As she’d expected, Tonbridge turned with a frown. Clearly she’d shocked him with her teasing. Blasted nobility. They thought everyone who didn’t conform to their idea of polite society to be beneath them. While they gambled away their fortunes, men like her grandfather accumulated great wealth by hard work. He could look down his nose all he liked, she wasn’t ashamed of her background.
A small smile curved his lips, a brief softening of his harsh features and her heart gave a lurch, the kind that hurt and felt good at the same time. Not a feeling to have around such a powerful man. If he sensed it, he would see it as weakness.
‘Brandy would be equally welcome to me, Miss Draycott,’ he said.
Did nothing put him out, or did he just never show it? Too well bred. Too reserved. ‘Call me Merry,’ she said, as she had on the moors, an inner wildness overcoming good sense. ‘Everyone does. I hate formality, don’t you?’
He looked more than a little startled at that, which gave her a moment of satisfaction.
He responded cheerfully enough. ‘As you wish, Merry.’ He didn’t offer his own first name. She guessed he’d already placed their relative stations in life and knew he was far above their touch.
Caroline poured the brandy. Merry took both glasses and handed one to Tonbridge. ‘To my knight in shining armour,’ she toasted boldly and tossed off the fiery liquid. It burned its way to her stomach.
She really didn’t need any more heat. The proximity of this man made her skin glow. She cocked a challenging brow.
He raised his glass, a smile curving his finely drawn mouth. ‘To a lovely maiden in distress.’
More devastating charm. He must practise in front of the mirror, the way the girls practised simpering before the glass at school.
He took a cautious sip and then nodded. ‘Excellent.’ He swallowed a mouthful.
‘My grandfather kept a very fine cellar,’ she said, not without a little pride. Grandfather might have lacked town bronze, as the ton called it, but he knew quality. Unfortunately, he had no sense of style. Hence the costly but dreadful décor.
Gribble opened the door. ‘Dinner is served, miss.’
Tonbridge held out both arms. ‘Ladies?’
Gribble’s grey brows shot up, wrinkling his forehead.
Speechless, Merry looked at Caroline, who lifted her shoulders in a slight shrug. As usual her hazel eyes gave nothing away. Merry had found Caroline serving at an inn in York and had instantly seen her predicament. A well-bred lady brought low. She’d offered her the position of companion on the spot. But Caroline never talked about her past. And she rarely offered an opinion.
Not that Merry relied on anyone else’s judgement. Grandfather would never allow it. She made her own decisions.
She placed her hand on his right forearm and Caroline did the same on his left. As they walked, she glanced at his face and saw nothing but bland politeness. And that made her nervous. Because politeness hid lies and knives in the back.
She had a strategy for dealing with practised deceit, developed after years of misery. Frontal attack.
Chapter Two
‘Is this your first visit to Yorkshire, my lord?’ Caroline asked when the food was served and the butler had withdrawn.
Tonbridge paused in his carving of the roast duck and smiled politely. ‘Not at all. I came here often in my youth with my family. It has been some years since my last visit, I must say.’
‘Lucky for me you chose today,’ Merry said, fluttering her eyelashes in a fair emulation of the girls she’d despised at school.
Caroline cast her a startled look.
Tonbridge continued carving. ‘It seems we were both lucky. I doubt I would have made it to Skepton in the snow and I would never have found hospitality on so grand a scale elsewhere in the wilds of the moors.’
Grand meaning horribly bourgeois, no doubt.
‘May I help you to some of this fine bird, Mrs Falkner?’ he asked.
‘Thank you,’ Caroline said.
‘Not for me,’ Merry said, then waved her fork and the carrot on its tines airily at the picture behind her. ‘That is my grandfather, Josiah Draycott. He rose from shepherd boy to owning one of the largest wool mills in Yorkshire.’
‘Impressive,’ Tonbridge said. He put the best slices of the bird on Caroline’s plate and took the remainder for himself.
Merry wasn’t sure if he referred to the portrait in which her grandfather, with his full-bottomed wig and eagle-eyed stare, looked as if he could eat small boys for breakfast, or his accomplishments. Strangely enough she had the impression it was the latter when she’d expected the former.
She cut her roast beef into bite-sized pieces. ‘He left it all to me.’
He stilled, his duck-laden fork hovering before parted lips. Lovely full lips. The kind of lips that would cushion a girl’s mouth. No awkward clashing of teeth for him, she felt sure.
His eyes widened. ‘You are a mill owner?’ he asked.
Hah! She’d managed to surprise him. At least he’d managed not to sneer. ‘Owner of Draycott’s Mills.
His gaze met hers. ‘I recognised the name, of course. I just didn’t expect
‘A woman in charge?’
‘We sell Durn’s wool to Draycott’s,’ he said, neatly sidestepping her question. He put the duck in his mouth and chewed. How could anyone look so scrumptious, just chewing?
She dragged her gaze from his mouth. ‘And very fine wool it is.’
‘The best,’ he agreed.
‘But not producing as much in recent years.’
He blinked and she felt a little glow of satisfaction. She wasn’t just a mill owner, a reaper of profits. While she rarely visited the mill because the blunt Yorkshire men felt uncomfortable around their female employer, she received weekly reports, statements and accountings. She knew her business. Grandfather had insisted.
‘We’ve seen revenues fall off,’ Tonbridge admitted. ‘One reason for my visit.’
One reason? What would be the others?
He
