Page 13 of The Rules of Matrimony
She leaned forward and in a low whisper added, “From the usual sick stomach that accompanies drinking all night.”
He reached up and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Miss, I know my limits. I have never been in such a state. For the record, I was napping.” He sighed. “Never mind, it is not worth the explanation. If you will excuse me, I have business in this house.” This maid—no, she was no maid. This woman before him—was she a neighbor? He hoped her uncle or cousin or whomever it was, was not the cause of her haphazard state. He would spare her a prayer tonight, despite the grass or mint leaves, but that was really all he could offer her. He dipped his head to bid her goodbye.
“But you requested to speak to Miss Tyler.”
She remembered. “Yes ... Do you know her?”
“Iam Miss Tyler.”
He blinked. Then blinked again. “You? You aretheMiss Amie Tyler?”
Her brow furrowed with what appeared to be confusion. Why was she confused about her own identity?
“I have never had anyone add an emphasis to my name.” Her tone held a touch of wonder and an equal amount of self-deprecation. “I am simply Miss Amie Tyler. No frills or implication of anything more.”
There it was again. So much innocence. She was not at all who he’d expected to find here. Her humility stunned him.
“Forgive me,” she said, untying her apron, “you must have traveled from somewhere since I have not seen you around town since that day. You must be weary. May I offer you some tea?”
She did not strike him as the kind to make up an engagement of marriage, no matter how strange she was. He could not make sense of it. “Tea would be nice.” They had a lot to converse about and might as well sit down for it.
She wiped her hands on her apron before handing it to the butler. “Mr. Goodman, have the kitchen send up the tea things. We will be in the library since my aunt is napping in the drawing room.”
He found her instructions strange. Not that she approved of napping in a drawing room as opposed to a graveyard but that she did not desire to awaken her aunt, who should be their chaperone. Was Mrs. Nelson as terrible as her husband and son? Is this what prompted Miss Tyler’s ghastly falsehood about their engagement? He carefully thought over his conclusion as they weaved through the house to the small library. It was a square room with one large window, a small fireplace, and a single wall of books. They were not heavy readers by the looks of it.
Miss Tyler ensured the door remained wide open and instructed Ian to sit in one of two chairs by the cold fireplace. A small table with a chessboard sat between them.
She took her own seat with far more grace than he expected and asked, “How can I be of assistance to you, Mr.—Forgive me, I don’t believe I caught your name.”
“No, I have yet to reveal myself. I amLord Reynolds.” He waited for the moment of recognition.
She smiled cordially. “It’s good to officially make your acquaintance.” Her smile froze on her face. She tilted her head and squinted her eyes. “Did you say Lord ... Reynolds?”
He gave a firm nod.
“This is silly. Remarkably silly. But any relation to the Lord Reynolds on the headstone in our parish’s graveyard?”
He nodded once. “My grandfather.”
Her eyes went as wide as the saucers on the table, and her skin paled. “Oh, fiddlesticks!” That word seemed a favorite of hers. “I thought you were dead.” She squeezed her eyes shut. “I mean,hewas dead. Heisdead.”
Then, all at once, Ian realized what she had done. “You engaged yourself to adeadman?” He gave a sharp laugh. And then laughed again. How perfectly absurd. But a dead man? Really? Tears stung his eyes. He couldn’t remember anything more humorous.
“Sir?”
He tried to collect himself. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be surprised. Everything about you, Miss Tyler, is wholly unexpected.”
She blew out her breath and crossed her arms over her chest. “I will have you know that I did not engage myself, as you say. My mother did.”
“Your mother?” He sobered. He vaguely recalled, when speaking to the headstone that day, her saying that her mother was making her uncle angry. “So, she is responsible for this mess?”
Miss Tyler put a fingernail between her teeth. “It is a mess, isn’t it? I’ve been sick about it for days. And now you’re alive—or in existence—and it is so much worse. I had no idea, I swear. I would’ve been more insistent with Mama otherwise.”
Ian gave a nod. “But you let her lie, didn’t you?”
“She can be difficult to manage.”
“Must you manage her?”
