Page 11 of Brave New Earl (The Way to a Lord's Heart 1)

“Because you’re a woman, you know this?”

Jean was immediately conscious of being a woman in the close company of a very attractive man. His arm lay across the back of the sofa. One muscular leg was crossed over the other. He was bent a little toward her, satirically attentive, and he seemed to fill her mind as well as her vision. What did she know? Anything? She hadn’t questioned her mission before meeting Geoffrey, or really planned for afterward, except in the vaguest way. “I know that your child would benefit from a father’s firm but kind guiding hand,” she managed.

“Do you? How fortunate for you. My father never provided such a service. Perhaps yours was a paragon?”

Jean felt herself flush. She wouldnottalk about this. Or think of her late father and his string of mistresses. She barely remembered what he’d looked like.

“Did he guide you in this exemplary way?” her companion asked.

“He lived in London.”

“And you did not?”

“No.” Jean braced to repel any further intrusive questions. This was none of his business. And who was he to judge fathers—or daughters, for that matter?

“So he was absent in reality. Rather than in the next room and oblivious. Which seems worse somehow.”

Jean stared and saw her surprise mirrored in his expression. He hadn’t meant to say that, obviously.

“My father spent most of his time right here in this room,” Lord Furness added. He looked around as if seeing the library with new eyes. The view appeared to unsettle him. “I was brought in occasionally to be…viewed.”

“Scolded, you mean?” Jean wondered.

“No. My mother and Nanny took care of that, when necessary. Just to affirm my existence, I think. As the son and heir.” He looked perplexed.

She gazed at him. His face was forbidding again. That smile seemed like a dream.

“I amnotsending Geoffrey away,” he said fiercely, surprising her. “If you think you can force me to do so, you are delusional.”

Jean’s righteous indignation came flooding back. “If you think I’ll leave him in his present state, you do not know me!”

“A lack for which I can only be grateful.”

She sprang to her feet, more hurt than she wished to admit. Why had she stayed here alone with him? He was impossible. And it wasn’t proper. Jaw tight, Jean stalked out, heading for her bedchamber.

Benjamin sat on, solitary, as he liked to be, in his usual refuge. His pulse, which had accelerated, gradually slowed. He told himself that he welcomed the silence. Hadn’t he been wishing for it? Solitude was solace. He’d have to find a way to be rid of Miss Saunders—and his uncle, too—tomorrow. Why had he allowed them to stay this long?

He had a sense of being watched. He looked up at the portrait of Alice, meeting its serene blue eyes. He could find no resemblance to her irritating cousin in those perfect features. Alice had been quiet not disruptive, gentle not argumentative. “What do you think of our son?” he asked.

Of course, there was no answer, and never would be. Alice wouldn’t see Geoffrey listen to reason and give up his ferocious behavior. Grow tall, go to school, whatever else the future might bring. She was gone.

Gloom rolled over Benjamin, submerging all else. He slumped, resting his head on the back of the sofa. He was so very tired.

Three

Arthur Shelton lingered at the breakfast table the following morning, wondering when the other denizens of Furness Hall would appear. It felt rather like waiting for the curtain to rise on a new play—one where he was both audience and…accidental instigator. There was a neat phrase. Now if he could just ensure that the action of this drama benefited all the players. In a life that had been full of responsibility, this was a new sort. He buttered a second excellent scone. His nephew’s staff had a number of deficiencies, but the cook was outstanding.

Miss Saunders came in as he ate. She wore the same dress she’d arrived in, still showing signs of the red paint Geoffrey had smeared on it, suggesting she hadn’t packed a great variety of clothing. “Good morning,” Arthur said. “I hope you slept well.”

“Not terribly well.” She sat down opposite him.

“I am sorry.”

“Did you hear a sort of…screech in the middle of the night?” asked Miss Saunders as she filled her cup from the teapot.

“A screech?”

She frowned. “That’s not the right word. The noise was high-pitched, but it also had a whispering quality. I don’t know what to compare it to.”

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