oafs who took the only comfortable chair, leaving their sister the wooden settle. Definitely nothing to do with her. It was simply the right thing to do.
He looked at the empty grate. It was cold, after all.
It was the work of a moment to lay a fire, find the tinderbox and have a small blaze going.
He had barely sat down again when the door opened and Miss Daventry came in bearing a small tray.
Shock sprang into those disquieting eyes as she saw the fire. ‘Oh, but—’
Julian rose and took the tray from her, setting it down on the table before turning back to her.
She hadn’t moved. She was staring at the little table as though wondering how it had arrived there. Then she looked at the fire. All the tension in her face, all the taut lines, dissolved, leaving her, he saw with a queer jolt, looking tired, yet as though something far more burdensome than the tray had been lifted from her.
Almost immediately she recovered, saying in her primmest tones, ‘How kind of you, my lord. Please do be seated.’
She bent over the tray and poured a cup. ‘Milk? Sugar?’
‘A little milk, please.’
She handed him his cup, poured her own, and sat down, her back ramrod straight.
Julian took a wary sip, and acknowledged surprise. The tea, if one liked the stuff, was perfectly acceptable. And the teacups, although old and chipped in places, had once been the height of elegance and cost a small fortune. Yet apart from mentioning Alcaston as his godfather, Harry Daventry made no play with grand connections or past glory.
‘Perhaps, my lord, you might explain how you know my brother.’
Miss Daventry’s cool voice drew him out of his thoughts. Did she know about Lissy? If so, then it probably had her blessing. She was no fool. The advantages of such a match to her were obvious. She might make a decent match herself from the connection.
‘Your brother has become acquainted with my sister.’
Miss Daventry’s teacup froze halfway to her lips. Her face blanched. ‘Your sister—?’ The teacup reversed its direction and was replaced in its saucer with a faint rattle. ‘Would your sister be Miss Trentham?’
‘Yes. My half-sister.’
Spear straight she sat, her mouth firm and a look of mulish obstinacy about her chin. The air of dignity intensified, despite the pallor of her cheeks.
Hell! No doubt she would defend her brother’s marital ambitions to the hilt. Why wouldn’t she? Such a connection would be a lifeline for her.
His mouth set hard.
He had to protect Lissy. Nothing else mattered. Even if he had to batter Miss Daventry’s pride into the dust.
‘How very unfortunate,’ she said, her voice calm. ‘I trust you are doing all in your power to discourage this?’
Unfortunate? From her perspective? He had every reason to disapprove of Mr Daventry, but what possible objection could she have to Lissy?
With freezing hauteur, he said, ‘I am at a loss to know how my sister merits your censure, Miss Daventry.’
‘Never having met her, I do not disapprove of Miss Trentham,’ said Miss Daventry. ‘Merely of—’ She broke off, staring. Faint colour stained the pale cheeks. ‘I think I understand the purpose of your visit, my lord. A warning to Harry? “Stay away from my sister, and I’ll stay away from yours.” Is that it?’
Outrage jolted through him. ‘I beg your pardon?’ Thank God she hadn’t divined his original suspicions!
She faced him undaunted. ‘If that is not the case, I beg your pardon. I can think of no other reason for your visit.’
Could something of his reputation have reached Miss Daventry via her brother’s letters?
‘No doubt, Miss Daventry. However, I am a gentleman. Whatever you may have heard to the contrary.’
‘Your reputation is of no interest to me, my lord,’ she informed him, picking up her cup and sipping her tea.
‘And what leads you to believe that I have a reputation, Miss Daventry?’ His reputation, after all, was not the sort one discussed with respectable females.
She gave him a considering look over her tea cup before answering.
‘Everyone has a reputation, my lord. All that remains in doubt…’ she sipped, ‘…is the nature of that reputation. Naturally, since you are a gentleman, yours is not the sort of reputation in which I interest myself.’
‘Yet you referred to it, ma’am.’
The brows lifted. ‘I, my lord? Hardly. You alluded to the possibility that someone might have mentioned you in unflattering terms. Thus suggesting that, deserved or not, you have a reputation.’
Julian nearly choked on his tea. Did she dot every ‘i’ with a needle? Serena, he realised, would have been cheering the chit on.
She changed the subject. ‘We were speaking of your sister, my lord,’ she said. ‘As I said, I do not disapprove of Miss Trentham. How should I? I have not the honour of her acquaintance. But I do disapprove of my brother’s interest in her.’
‘A fine distinction, Miss Daventry,’ he said. ‘Would you care to voice your objections?’
If possible, she sat up even straighter. Her chin lifted.
‘There is a looking glass over the chimneypiece, my lord. Examine yourself in it. Bring to mind your home. Your estates. Recall your rank. Then look about you. Tell me what you see.’
He didn’t answer. Her cold, blunt assessment rivalled his own. The obvious, brutal response was that everything about her and this room spoke of impoverished gentility. But faced with her quiet dignity, he simply couldn’t say it. Which was foolish beyond permission since the words had been on his lips.
After a moment she spoke again. ‘Your silence is answer enough. Harry and Miss Trentham are from different spheres. You cannot wish your sister to make such a step. I assume that is what you are come to tell me, and also that you have refused to permit Harry to see your sister again.’
‘Not quite, Miss Daventry,’ he said.
He’d intended exactly that, but Serena had talked him out of it.
She stared and he felt the corner of his mouth twitch. That had rattled her.
‘You can’t approve such a match!’ The disbelief in her eyes echoed in her voice.
‘Naturally not,’ said Julian. ‘But my sister has a stubborn streak and in four years when she gains her majority, I will not be able to prevent the match. Your objections tally with my own. Your connection to the Duke of Alcaston notwithstanding—’
‘My what?’
