high regard to Miss O’Keefe directly, if that is possible.’
‘I’ll fetch her,’ Miss Dawes piped up. ‘I have no idea why she has not showed herself.’
‘I would be grateful.’ Flynn watched her bustle through an interior door.
‘Rose!’ he heard Miss Dawes say sharply.
Flynn frowned.
‘She’ll come,’ Mr O’Keefe said in a reassuring tone.
Flynn did not wish to negotiate with the father. Experience had taught him that it was preferable to deal with the woman herself.
‘Here she is,’ chirped Miss Dawes from the doorway. She quickly stepped aside.
Rose O’Keefe entered the room, so graceful she seemed to glide above the floor. Up close, with daylight illuminating the room, her beauty robbed his lungs of air. Her face, so fair and fine, was framed by raven-black tendrils, her skin translucent. But it was her eyes that captured him and aroused him again. They were as green as the rolling hills of County Down.
He stood.
Before he could speak, she said, ‘You are?’
Her father rose from his chair and walked over to her. ‘Mary Rose, Mr Flynn is secretary to the Marquess of Tannerton.’
Her glorious green eyes widened slightly.
Flynn bowed. ‘Miss O’Keefe.’
She seemed to recover from any surprise, saying coolly, ‘You were wanting to speak to me, sir?’
Flynn heard the lilt of Ireland in her speech, not quite as carefully eradicated as his own. He began, ‘I come on behalf of the marquess—’
‘I see,’ she interrupted. ‘What is it a marquess wants of me that he cannot be asking himself?’
Flynn blinked.
‘Mary Rose!’ her father pleaded. ‘Mind your tongue.’
‘Obey your father!’ Miss Dawes scolded.
Miss O’Keefe darted Miss Dawes a defiant glance. This was going badly, Flynn thought. It was beginning to seem as if her father and this Dawes woman were forcing her into this. Tanner never desired a woman be compelled to share his bed. Flynn needed to deal directly with Miss O’Keefe. He must be assured she would be a willing partner.
And, at the moment, Miss O’Keefe looked anything but willing.
‘I will speak with Miss O’Keefe alone, sir,’ he said in a smooth voice.
Mr O’Keefe looked uncertain.
Miss Dawes wagged her finger towards the daughter. ‘Talk to him, Rose. Be a good girl.’ Then she hustled the father out of the room.
Flynn turned back to Miss O’Keefe. Her green eyes were strained.
‘I would not distress you, miss,’ he said softly.
She waved a graceful hand in the air. ‘It is of no consequence.’
He paused, composing his next words.
She spoke first. ‘You came for a reason, Mr Flynn?’ Her voice was high, and tiny lines appeared at the corners of her perfectly sculpted lips.
His brows knitted. This girl seemed not at all eager to hear an offer. ‘Indeed. About Lord Tannerton.’
‘Would you care to sit, sir?’ she asked with forced politeness.
He inclined his head, waiting for her to sit opposite him before he lowered himself into the seat.
‘You were saying, Mr Flynn?’
He began again, ‘I was saying, the marquess has heard you sing—’
‘And you, Mr Flynn? Have you heard me sing?’ She seemed bent on interrupting him.
‘Yes, Miss O’Keefe, I have had the pleasure.’
A genuine smile fleetingly appeared. ‘Were you liking my singing?’ She dipped her head and he noticed that her lashes were long and luxurious.
‘Very much,’ he said, regaining his wits.
She folded her hands in her lap. ‘Flynn. it is an Irish name. Where are you from, Mr Flynn?’
Flynn did not usually lose such total control over a conversation. It disturbed him, nearly as much as perceiving her reluctance disturbed him. Nearly as much as her eyes disturbed him.
‘Where am I from?’ he repeated.
‘Yes, where in Ireland are you from?’
He could not remember the last time he’d been asked this. ‘County Down, near Ballynahinch.’
Her bewitching eyes sparkled. ‘I attended school in Killyleagh.’
‘So did my sister.’ Those words slipped out.
‘Oh!’ She turned thoughtful for a moment. ‘Could she be Siobhan Flynn, by any chance? There was a Siobhan Flynn two years ahead of me.’
Siobhan’s name propelled him back to Ballynahinch. Little Siobhan. She’d been eleven when he’d last seen her. How old was she now? Twenty-one?
It meant Miss O’Keefe was naught but nineteen. No wonder her papa hovered near.
‘She may have been the same,’ he said.
Miss O’Keefe’s eyes danced with excitement. ‘How does she fare? I rarely heard news of any of the girls after they left.’
Flynn realised he had barely heeded news of Siobhan in his mother’s letters. ‘She is married and has two sons.’
Miss O’Keefe sighed. ‘How nice for her!’
Flynn began again. ‘About the marquess—’
‘Oh, yes, the marquess.’ Her false tone returned. ‘He sent you. You did not come to speak with me about home.’
Home. Home. It repeated in his ears.
‘The marquess is anxious to make your acquaintance, Miss O’Keefe. He is prepared to become your friend.’
‘My friend?’ She glanced away. ‘He knows so much after listening to a few songs?’
He opened his mouth to respond with lavish compliments.
She spoke first. ‘Are your friendships so easily made, Mr Flynn?’
‘My friendships?’ He was repeating again. He disliked that she distracted him from his intent, making him think instead of friends, long-ago boys who explored crumbling castle ruins with him or fished in crystalline streams.
