looked away before he could catch her staring. Even if he was nothing more than a tradesman masquerading as gentry, he deserved more courtesy than she was giving him. They were drawing up the long drive towards the great house where she had played as a child. That was before Mary had died, of course, and before her sister Anne had grown into such a great and unapproachable lady. Had the manor changed as well? she wondered. Were the places she’d hidden under chairs and behind statues the same or different? Although she wished the circumstances had been different, she very much wanted to see the place—just once more.
She could feel the eyes of the other man on her, watching her reaction to the house. So she worked to relax her posture and not stare so, or appear eager for a visit to it. It was little better than staring directly at him to admire his property as though she coveted or desired the luxury he took for granted.
‘I had a friend who lived here once,’ she blurted, to explain her interest.
‘And perhaps you will again,’ he replied easily.
She looked up sharply into a face that was all bland innocence. The carriage pulled up before the great front entry, and as it stopped he signalled for the door to be opened, allowing her father to exit first so that he might help her on the steps.
For a moment they were alone again, and he touched her hand and smiled. ‘There is no reason for us to be enemies,’ he said.
‘Nor any particular reason for friendship,’ she reminded him, drawing her hand away.
‘I think it is too soon for either of us to tell,’ he announced, ignoring her animosity.
The process of entering the house was much the same as their setting off from the mill had been, with him carrying her while she protested, her shoeless foot waving in the air. There was a flurry of alarm amongst the servants, many of whom recognised her and her father.
‘Put me down now,’ she insisted. ‘Talk of this will reach the village. It will be the ruin of me.’
‘If it is, your father is right here to set them straight.’ He was smiling again, as though he knew how likely it was that her father would have no real memory of the event, for good or ill.
‘I would prefer that no explanation be needed,’ she said.
‘And I would prefer that people think me less of an ogre,’ Stratford replied. ‘I will not have you limping about my house while I offer no assistance. Then it will get round that I let you suffer as a punishment to your father.’
For her own sake, and to preserve her reputation, he explained in a loud voice for the benefit of the staff that Miss Lampett had fallen, and he did not wish to risk further injury until she had rested her foot. But as he did so his hands tightened on her body, to prove to Barbara that he was enjoying the experience at her expense.
‘You may put me down, and I will take my chances,’ she said, glancing at a parlour maid who stood, wide-eyed, taking in the sight. ‘I feel quite all right now.’
He pretended that he had not heard, and called for tea to be brought to the library, carrying her down the wide hall and depositing her on a couch by the fire.
How had Mr Stratford known, she wondered, the calming effect that the presence of books had on her father? Though he seemed to have more difficulty with people since the accident, the printed word still gave him great comfort. The Clairemont Manor library was the largest in the area and the best possible place to cement her father’s recovery.
As the servants prepared tea, her father stood and ran a hand along the rows of leather-bound volumes. Stratford studied the behaviour and then invited him to help himself to whatever he liked, lamenting that business gave him little time to enjoy the books there.
Her father gave a grateful nod and fell quickly to silence, ignoring the cup that had been poured for him, and the plate of sandwiches, in favour of the Roman history in his hand.
Stratford gave her a wry smile. ‘While your father is preoccupied, would you enjoy a brief walk down the corridor? If your ankle is better, as you claim, a spot of exercise will assure me that it is safe to send you home.’
She wanted to snap that she did not need him seeing to her safety. She had not wanted to come here at all. And now that she was here she would go home when she was ready, and not at his bidding. But it would be shaming to discuss her father’s rude behaviour while she shared a room with him, so it was best that she allow herself to be drawn away.
‘That would be lovely,’ she lied.
He went to fetch her boot and helped her with the lacing of it, commenting that the lack of swelling was an encouraging sign. Behind a placid smile, she gritted her teeth against the contact of his fingers against her foot and ankle. He was very gentle, as though he cared enough not to cause injury to a weakened joint. But she suspected the occasional fleeting touches she felt against her stocking were not the least bit accidental. He was touching her for his own pleasure. Much as she did not wish to, she found it wickedly exciting.
Then he rose and went ahead to open the door for her, standing respectfully to the side so that she might pass. She forced herself to stifle the unquiet feeling that it gave her to have him at her back—even for a moment.
It was possible that this latest offer masked something much darker. Perhaps he had designs upon her virtue. For, this close, she could not deny the virile air that he seemed to carry about with him, and the sense that he had a man’s needs and would not scruple to act upon them. She gave a small shudder, barely enough to be noticeable.
‘Is the house too cold for you?’ he prompted. ‘If so, I could have a servant build up the fire, or perhaps bring you a wrap …’
‘No, I am fine. I suspect that I took a slight chill on the moors.’
‘Your clothing is still damp from the fall. And I took you away from the tea I had promised.’ He frowned. ‘But I wished to speak alone with you for a moment, so that you might know I bear you no ill will because of recent events.’ He rubbed his brow, as though tired. ‘One can hardly be held responsible for the actions of one’s parent. I myself have a troublesome father.’
He stopped.
‘Had,’ he corrected. ‘I had a difficult father. He is dead now. For a moment I had quite forgotten.’
‘I am sorry for your loss,’ she said politely. ‘I assume the passing is a recent one, if you still forget it?’
He looked away, as though embarrassed. ‘Almost seven years, actually. It is just that he has been on my mind of late. He was a weaver, you see.’
‘You are the son of a weaver?’ she said.
‘Is that so surprising?’ There was a cant to his head, a jutting of the chin as though he were ready to respond to a challenge. ‘With all your father’s fine talk of supporting the workers, I did not think to find you snobbish, Miss Lampett.’
‘I am not snobbish,’ she retorted. ‘It merely surprises me that my father would need to tell a weaver’s son the damage automation does to the livelihoods of the men here.’
‘What you call damage, Miss Lampett, I call freedom. The ability to do more work in less time means the workers do not need to toil from first light to last. Perhaps
