jaw set, and her mouth a flat, determined line.
‘No gratitude, ma’am?’ he drawled.
Those queerly penetrating eyes narrowed. ‘I’m reserving it until I know who you are, and why you entered my home without my leave,’ was the icy rejoinder.
‘Well, you won’t discover either of those things if you kick me out into the street,’ he pointed out with what he freely acknowledged to be unforgivable logic.
It seemed she concurred. One small fist clenched and the pale cheeks flushed. Otherwise her control held.
‘Very well. Who are you?’
He supposed she could not be blamed for being suspicious. He took out his card case and extracted another card, holding it towards her.
There was a moment’s hesitation before she moved, and then it was warily, watchful eyes on his face as she took the card. At once she stepped beyond his reach behind a settle before examining the card.
He watched, fascinated. There was something about her, about her face—what was it? Apart from that she looked cold.
She was glaring at him again.
‘So, Lord Braybrook—assuming you are Lord Braybrook and not some scoundrel—’
‘I’m obliged to point out that the two are not mutually exclusive,’ he said.
She positively bristled. ‘That I can well believe!’ Then, ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake! One of my eyes is blue and the other brown! And now perhaps you will stop staring at me!’
One was blue, the other… So they were. He could see it now; behind the spectacles one eye was a soft, misty blue and the other hazel brown.
‘And, no, I am not a witch,’ she informed him.
He smiled. ‘I assumed you weren’t, since Goodall left in human form rather than as a toad.’
For a split second there was a flare in her eyes that might have been laughter. A lift at the corner of the mouth, which was, he suddenly saw, surprisingly lush. Soft pink lips that for a moment looked as though they might know how to smile.
The impression vanished like a snowflake on water.
‘Frivolity,’ she said, as one who identifies a beetle, all the softness of her mouth flattened in disapproval.
‘Ah, you recognised it,’ he said with a bow.
This time her eyes widened, but she controlled herself instantly.
Intrigue deepened. What would it take to crack her self- control?
‘Do all your rescuers receive this charming response?’ he asked. ‘It’s true, you know; I am acquainted with Harry. As for my motives; I was coming to call on you and overheard Goodall. I interfered out of disinterested chivalry, Mrs Daventry.’
‘Miss Daventry,’ she corrected him.
He watched her closely. ‘Oh? I understood a Mrs Daventry lived here?’
Her expression blanked. ‘Not now. My mother died some months ago.’
‘I beg your pardon,’ he said quietly. ‘My condolences.’
‘Thank you, my lord. Will you not be seated?’
She gestured to a battered wingchair by the empty fireplace. The leather upholstery bore evidence of several cats having loved it rather too well. The only other seat was the uncomfortable- looking wooden settle opposite with a damp cloak hung over it. He took the settle and, at a faint startled sound from her, glanced over his shoulder to catch the surprise on her face.
‘What?’ he asked. ‘You can’t have thought I’d take the chair!’
Her mouth primmed. ‘I’ve noticed gentlemen prefer a comfortable chair, yes.’
His opinion of Harry Daventry slid several notches. ‘Then they weren’t gentlemen, were they?’
Her mouth thinned further. ‘And you are?’
He laughed. ‘Usually. I’ll warn you if I feel the urge to behave too badly.’
‘Very obliging of you. May I offer you tea?’
Prim. Proper. As calm as though she entertained the vicar.
Tea, though. He didn’t like tea at the best of times. And imagining the quality of tea he was likely to receive here sent shivers down his spine. His spine’s concerns aside, however, good manners dictated acceptance. And Miss Daventry looked as though a hot drink would do her good.
‘Thank you, ma’am. That would be very pleasant.’
She nodded. ‘Then please excuse me. My servant is out.’ With a graceful curtsy, she left through a door at the back of the parlour.
Julian took a deep breath and looked around the cramped room. This was what he had come for, after all: to judge Daventry’s condition for himself. And if Lissy could see this, the circumstances to which she would be reduced if she married Daventry, it might give her pause for thought.
It was spotless, though, he noticed. Absolutely spotless. As though dust dared not settle in a room tended by Miss Daventry. Everything gleamed with care. Wood waxed and polished. Not a cobweb in sight. Against one wall was a bureau bookcase, crammed with books. Julian frowned. It was old now, but it spoke of one-time wealth.
Interesting. Other things caught his eye. An old-fashioned drop-sided dining table against the wall held a lamp. Brass candlesticks that once had been silver gilt. A battered wine table, piled with more books beside the wingchair. Every sign that the Daventries had once been well to do, commanding the elegancies of life and, in sinking to this address, had clung to a few treasured reminders. Perhaps the crash of the ’90s had brought them down. He could even sympathise with their plight. His own father had steered clear of those shoals, but had not been so canny in recent years… Lord, it was cold in here!
His mouth hardened. Harry Daventry would not restore his family’s fortunes at the cost of Lissy’s happiness. No doubt Daventry’s sister would be quartered in his household… His eye fell on the books tottering on the wine table—sermons, probably, and other improving works. He picked up the top volumes and his brows rose. Sir Walter Scott—Ivanhoe. He looked at the next couple of books, poetry. So Miss Prim had a taste for the romantical, did she? He picked up the final volumes—Miss Austen’s Northanger Abbey. Serena had enjoyed that…
He set the books down, frowning. Contradictions lay hidden beneath the layers of brown sobriety and the cap. Strolling back to the settle and sitting down, he wondered what colour her hair might be. Not so much as a strand peeked from that monstrous cap. Mousy? It would suit the spectacles and that prim mouth with its iron clad composure. Although it wasn’t quite iron-clad, was it? What would it take to breach it utterly?
She would return soon. Miss Respectability, laden with a teatray needing to be put somewhere… Below the window was a small tea table.
With a sigh, he rose, shifted the table, placing it between the wingchair
