own attire was unforgivably dowdy, the rips on her skirt repaired badly and her only pair of boots still damp from the deep snow.
‘Mrs Thomas says that you declined the use of the gowns she laid out on your bed?’
‘I did, sir, for the ones I own shall suffice.’
‘If it is because you do not wish to wear my wife’s clothes, my housekeeper assures me she could fashion something from the many bolts of fabric that are stored in the attic. She is an expert seamstress by all accounts.’
Seraphina felt herself hesitate. A new gown that was neither too big nor badly torn for Christmas was tempting and she was so very tired of wearing what she had.
‘I could take the cost of the fabric from your wages.’
His suggestion made her blush because she knew that such a thing would be far and above any money she was earning as a governess.
Yet temptation lingered. Reaching for her grandmother’s single pearl on the chain around her neck, she slipped it off so that it lay in the palm of her hand. She had always worn this piece since Elizabeth had died and it was undeniably precious. Yet reality beckoned, too, in the shabby dress she had on, the seams beneath her left arm so frayed she could no longer repair them.
‘If I put this down as a surety for the sum of the fabric, I could accept your offer.’
He shook his head. ‘I have no need for it.’
Her gaze met his, amber-gold in the daylight, drawing her in. She felt her body respond to his glance, a throb of want dancing like flame warmth across her skin. When he stepped back the disappointment stung.
‘You look like your mother. Did you know that?’
Her heart thumped at the question, coming as if on the surge of desire. ‘Were you her lover, then?’
Discomfort shadowed his face. ‘How much did you comprehend about Elizabeth’s life?’ His voice was wary.
‘Enough to realise she was unhappy with my father. Enough to see her spend hours getting ready at night and not return until the morning.’ She had never told anyone that before, but it did not feel disloyal here to speak of such things. The duke had known Mama, after all, and he had helped her when others had turned away. Besides, it might have been he who kept her occupied nightly.
‘People deal with an unhappy relationship in different ways and for Elizabeth it was through enjoying the company of my cousin before he died. Terence. His name was Terence.’
Relief allowed the breath she hadn’t realised she was holding to escape. ‘The same as your son?’
‘Aye, he was named after him. We were brought up together like brothers and the last thing he said to me was “look after Lizzy”.’
‘So you gave her money when Papa would not?’
‘The bills were piling up and your father had refused to pay them, but in the end it was not such largesse she needed at all …’
Seraphina understood what he was saying. Her mother had gone to Moreton and raced her horse fast across the track above the cliffs. Fast enough for it to lose its footing and for Elizabeth to be transported to the place her lover had already been taken to? Other things became explained as well: her father’s lack of grief, an escalating gambling habit and his anger.
‘Thank you for telling me the truth.’
He smiled and held her gaze, just the two of them here in the breakfast room, the day drawing into coldness and the new snow falling outside. Buffered by nature and locked in by the forces of winter as it laid its arms about the countryside in a white blanket of cold, Seraphina felt … altered.
Life at Moreton had been fraught and uncertain, the arguments and anger constant. She had always been frightened. She knew this absolutely because here, at the castle, she wasn’t, the disquietude of her home life replaced by hopes and promises drawing her in as she anticipated what was to come.
But there was something today in his gaze that was hidden, and when he began to speak she knew that the details of the past few weeks had caught up with her.
‘Yesterday in Maldon I saw a copy of The Times. The man you mentioned, Ralph Bonnington, is telling the world that you struck him when he offered you all the assistance and support that your father had not.’
‘Assistance? My God.’ She stood as she said it, a sick feeling of horror slicing into disbelief. ‘He said that?’ Anger darkened her vision. ‘I hit him on the head with a silver ewer because he was trying to …’ She could not go on.
Trey came closer and reached out, putting her hand into his, the gentleness felt in the action making her heart ache. ‘The man is a charlatan and a cheat—as no one knows where you are yet it seems you are safe.’
Relief flooded through her and her fingers clutched his. She wished he might bring her closer and kiss her hard on the lips, like the men in the romances she sometimes read at night, no choice in it but need and want and taking.
But his fingers stayed still, a light pressure denoting only comfort and consolation. She wanted to push up against him and demand so much more, a breathless hunger nearly undoing her. Instead, she moved back, smoothing out her rumpled skirt for something to do before she had to look at him.
‘He is a large man with a lot of money. If he comes here to make trouble …?’
‘He won’t.’
The certainty in Trey’s voice was so comforting. There were, after all, many other things he could have said and to have someone watching out for her was a new experience. A wonderful one! When her glance finally met his she reddened and looked away, his integrity and decency stealing into her bones as delight. She wanted to thank him for such belief, wanted to bring him into the joy of the Christmas preparation that she had spent much time in planning.
‘We are dressing the tree this afternoon, my lord. The children would be happy if you might come and help us.’
‘And you, Miss Moorland. Would you be happy, too?’
Confusion made her stammer. ‘Your h-h-height would be a great aid in placing the angel on the very top of the tree.’
When he smiled she felt her world turn and hated all the hopes that rose unbidden.
Her reputation was lost and she was without a dowry. Her wealth consisted of what she wore, which was far less than satisfactory, a single pearl that did have some worth and a dog who was only now learning to sit still. A hundred pounds, she reasoned, the few notes she owned tucked into her pocket after pawning all her rings and a bracelet—the sum total that stood between her and ruin.
Resolution swept through her. Trey Stanford, the Duke of Blackhaven, could not possibly be interested in her and she could not jeopardise this posting by imagining that he might be. Regaining her lost composure, she smiled at him in the way of an employee who was both professional and distant and excused herself from his company.
Three hours later the smell of pine filled the room as Mrs Thomas brought in a plate of Christmas pies.
‘Baked
