by Anne Gracie
“Yes, I explained.”
“Good. In my note, I invited Lady Elinore to come out with the girls and me for a drive in the park tomorrow morning.”
Giles arched an eyebrow. “I see. And has she accepted the invitation?”
Sebastian shook his head. “Not yet. I only sent the note around an hour ago. But she will, I’m certain.”
Giles sipped his port meditatively and said nothing.
“This is Hyde Park,” Sebastian explained, as the open carriage swept between the railed gates. “Everyone who is anyone promenades here in the afternoons—all the smart people. Glamorous ladies and important gentlemen.”
“They don’t look glamorous, they look stupid.” Carrie sat hunched in the corner of the carriage, kicking her feet against the leather seats, scowling at the promenaders.
“This is not the hour for promenade. There are only a few people at the moment. In the afternoon, this place will be crowded with the most fashionable people in the world.”
“I hate crowds.” Cassie was determined not to be pleased by anything. She had not wanted to come to London. She did not want to come out in a carriage this morning. She had seen enough of London.
It was behavior Sebastian would not normally tolerate from anyone, but for the moment, he’d decided to ignore her rudeness. He was learning to understand her ways better. It was token rudeness. He suspected that under her hostility she was relieved to have him take control of them, relieved to share the burden of Dorie’s silence and her nameless fears. It was nothing he could put a finger on, just a feeling.
However, Cassie still needed to assert some independence. A prideful little creature, she never missed the opportunity to remind him that she had managed all her life without him. The knife still strapped to the leg that kicked at the upholstery was a invisible symbol of it.
A high-perch phaeton swept past them at a smart trot, pulled by a pair of matched grays. Giles owned a very similar rig. Sebastian craned his neck, but from this angle he could not see who was driving, just a man in high-crowned beaver and a lady in a gray bonnet.
He shook his head. What was he thinking? Giles never rose before noon.
Thud. Thud.
“Stop kicking the seats, Cassie,” said Sebastian firmly.
She tossed her head defiantly, but the kicking stopped. Her hostility was paper thin. Yesterday, as they’d entered the metropolis, Cassie had grumbled that she didn’t want to live in London, even for a month, but she hadn’t been able to help craning her neck to take in some of the sights, and her eyes were bright with excitement. And now in the park, she was taking in every detail of the costumes of the ladies she’d called stupid-looking.
She was a spirited little handful, and Sebastian was thankful for it. He didn’t mind the difficulties. Cassie was like him—a survivor. She hadn’t been crushed by her experiences.
It was Dorie who worried him most. He hadn’t a clue how to handle her. She seemed so fragile.
She sat on the seat of the carriage like a thin, neat little doll. Her skin was porcelain-pale and fine, her eyes wide and dark, too large for her pinched, too-small face. For someone who stole food constantly, her body showed no signs of it. He wished he could communicate with her in some way.
That governess was wrong. Dorie wasn’t mentally deficient. She just didn’t speak. She understood everything anyone said, and Sebastian believed she could read—at least she seemed to derive pleasure from the books he had provided. She utterly refused to write, however, except to copy a text. Apart from these instances, she was at all other times perfectly docile and obedient. Unnaturally so for a child just turned twelve.
Sebastian worried about her constantly. He’d tried to have her examined by a doctor once, to see if her silence was caused by some damage to her throat, but she’d resisted it strenuously, and the sight of the white-faced child silently fighting off the doctor with frantic little fists had cut straight to his heart. He’d sent the doctor away.
Her big, gray eyes had reproached him for weeks afterward.
She sat neatly on her seat now, obediently observing the sights of Hyde Park. He had no idea what was going on in her head. But he had to keep trying.
For the dozenth time he wished Lady Elinore was with them. She would know what to do, how to talk to them. But she’d sent her apologies, claiming to have another morning engagement already. Sebastian knew an excuse when he saw it. Lady Elinore must be offended by the way he’d rushed off to Manchester, leaving his friend to pass on his apologies. He should have taken a moment to pen her a note, at least. And made arrangements for his butler to send her flowers.
“We’re coming up to the pond, now,” he said. “Dorie, would you like to feed the ducks?”
She glanced at the pond but didn’t respond. He signaled the driver to stop.
“Why are we stopping?” Cassie demanded.
“To feed the ducks.”
“What with?”
Sebastian produced a large packet of stale bread. “Come on. Out you hop.”
“I don’t want to feed the stupid ducks,” Cassie grumbled. “I hate ducks.”
“I don’t care. I want you to feed them, and the fresh air will do you good.”
“There’s no such a thing as fresh air in London!”
“Yes, you must miss the pure, sweet atmosphere of Manchester,” Sebastian agreed ironically. He added pleasantly, “Get out of the carriage now, Cassie, or I’ll feed you to the ducks as well. Although with that scowl, you’d probably give the poor creatures indigestion.”
Sulkily, Cassie scrambled down. Sebastian stepped down and then turned to help Dorie out of the carriage. She instantly pulled back, and he cursed himself for forgetting. Cassie pushed past him and held out her hand. Dorie took it and carefully climbed down the steps. She looked as if a puff of wind would blow her away.
They crossed to the pond, and Sebastian broke up the bread and gave it to the girls to throw. The ducks came flocking, quacking in noisy exuberance. After a moment or two, Cassie forgot she hated ducks and threw them bits of bread, laughing as they fought for each piece and scolding them for stealing from each other.
Progress.
Dorie carefully broke her bread into tiny pieces and tossed them in one by one, seeking out the smaller ducks, the injured and the shy ones. She did it solemnly, with deliberation, as if engaged in some great endeavor.
She liked doing this, Sebastian decided. They would do it again. Each tiny positive moment was a step forward. When he’d decided to bring them back to London with him, he had taken comfort from the notion that Dorie was somehow relieved to see him when he returned. Of course she hadn’t shown it by word or deed, but it was his impression, confirmed by his housekeeper, Mrs. Elliot, that the child had relaxed in some slight fashion when he came home. And though she still kept a physical distance from him, she seemed somehow less anxious when he was there, like a person who was frightened of dogs nevertheless taking comfort in the presence of a large, fierce watchdog.
It was progress of a sort. As was feeding the ducks.
“Ah, I see the ducks have you well-trained also, Mr. Reyne,” came a voice from behind him. “They are demanding creatures, are they not?”
It was Miss Merridew, looking ravishing in a green muslin walking gown and a green and white pelisse, frogged with Russian braid in a vaguely military style. On her it did not look the least bit military. Over her curls, she wore a jaunty little cap with gold braid trimming and a red feather. She smiled up at him with an unaffected warmth that took his breath away.
He stared dumbly at her, his throat suddenly thick with desire.
“How do you do, Mr. Reyne,” another voice said coolly, jolting him out of his trance. He suddenly realized that both the Misses Merridew were standing in front of him, accompanied by a beautiful child with red gold hair, and that footman/groom carrying a rush basket.
He was torn by contradictory emotions. It was eleven days since he’d seen Miss Merridew at th
e concert. Eleven days of drama and anxiety, and yet, despite it all, he’d missed her.
But he hadn’t planned to have his sisters meet people yet, particularly not society people, apart from Giles, who knew about them, and Lady Elinore, for obvious reasons. Cassie and Dorie weren’t ready to meet people. They needed more time to feel secure, more time to learn how to behave in company.
Miss Hope put her arm around the beautiful child’s shoulder and drew her forward. “Mr. Reyne, this is our sister, Grace. Grace, this is Mr. Reyne.”
The little girl curtsied and gave him a shy “How do you do, sir?” She would be about eleven or twelve, he thought as he greeted her. She looked with pleased expectancy at his sisters.
Damn, damn, damn! He didn’t even know if his sisters knew how to behave with other children. That’s why he’d come to the park at such an unfashionable hour and gone to the most remote bank of the pond. Now, three society females were smiling at his sisters and crowding around, and there was no escape, for Miss Hope was saying, “And these two young ladies are—?”
Sebastian didn’t know what to say. If he introduced them, Cassie would be rude, and Dorie would be exposed as a freak who could not talk. Within days the whole ton would know of it, and Sebastian would not allow that. His sisters were not fodder for any gossip mill! He wanted to protect them, to snatch them up and run with them back to the safety of the carriage, only if he grabbed Dorie, she would struggle, and then no doubt Cassie would pull her knife on him, and then all hell would break loose. He frowned at Miss Hope, wishing she and her retinue would just disappear.
But before he could utter a word, a small elbow thudded into his hip, and Cassie pushed past him. “The cat seems to have got my brother’s tongue. I’m Cassandra, and this is my sister, Eudora, only we call her Dorie. She doesn’t speak.” She flung it out as a challenge, but Miss Hope Merridew only smiled.
“How do you do, Cassandra, and you, too, Dorie.” She took the hand that Cassie proffered and, smiling kindly, held out a hand to Dorie.
Dorie regarded her impassively for a long moment, and Sebastian braced himself, but then the child reached forward and shook hands, and he sighed with relief.
Miss Hope went on, “We are so happy to meet you two—aren’t we, Grace?—for Grace does not know anyone her own age in London and is bored to death with shopping and other pursuits that we older ladies enjoy so much.”
Grace nodded her head and eyed Cassie solemnly. “Have you been to the Tower of London yet?”
Cassie shook her head.
“It’s where they used to chop off people’s heads—even kings,” Grace informed her with relish. She turned to her sister. “We could go again, could we not? Take Cassandra and Dorie?”
Her sister nodded. “Of course, if Mr. Reyne allows it.”
Cassie looked at him with a belligerent expression, daring him to refuse. “That would be very nice, thank you,” Cassie said, “and you may call me Cassie.”
Sebastian blinked and tried to keep the smile off his face. Who would have believed that his knife-carrying, contentious little sister could produce such gracious manners! Even her accent sounded more refined than usual.
She was a good mimic, he suddenly realized. She’d answered the ladies in their own pure accent. How interesting.
“Have you run out of bread?” the other twin, Faith, asked. She took the basket from the footman. “We’ve brought plenty. Cook saves it for us. Here.” She handed several large chunks of bread to each girl, and they hurried back to the water’s edge and flung bread about like three very ordinary little girls. Miss Faith went with them.
Sebastian realized he had been holding his breath. Like three very ordinary little girls. He sighed.
“My, that sounded very heartfelt,” Hope said.
He made an indeterminate sound of acknowledgment, thought for a moment, and then produced a gruff, “Fine weather, is it not?”
Hope took the rebuff philosophically. He had looked simultaneously glad and horrified to see her when they first arrived, but once the children had run off, he relaxed. She supposed many men were awkward with children. Not all were as easy and natural as her brother-in-law, Gideon.
She slipped her hand though the crook of his arm and said, “It is fine indeed. Quite delightful. Shall we stroll for a moment or two while the ducks feast?” He froze at her touch, and she added, “Faith and James will keep an eye on them.”
Staring ahead, he said stiffly, “Very well, we shall stroll.” He marched forward at a rapid pace. She had to skip to keep up with him. It took him a moment to notice, then he slowed abruptly. Another silence fell.
He looked around the park with a faint air of desperation and said, “Are those elm trees over there? Very useful trees, elms. Shady. Particularly in sunny weather.” He paused for a moment, apparently thinking, and then added, “And yes, it is fine. We have had a lot of sunny weather lately, have we not?”
Hope smiled at him. It was just like the other times she had touched him. On one level he seemed to freeze up and become socially stilted and awkward, addressing her with all the charm of a municipal speech, but at the same time his big, warm hand had instantly come up to cover hers, clamping it possessively to his arm. She was certain he was unaware he’d even done it. The contrasts within him were utterly compelling.
He glanced toward the girls, who were hurling chunks of bread at the noisy ducks. “I suppose the ducks would prefer more rain.”
Hope perceived that unless she took control of the conversation, they would end up discussing vegetation in the park, ducks, and possibly the chance of showers.
With a little gentle pressure on his arm, she said, “Shall we investigate those willows?”
With faint reluctance, he headed toward the willows. He was an enigma, but he drew her like a lodestone. She was determined to get to know him better. “Are your sisters newly arrived in London?”
He gave her a wary look. “Yes.”
“You’re very brave.”
He gave her an even warier look. “Why do you say that?”
She chuckled. “Most men of your age would hate having to take on a pair of young sisters, especially when you are making an entrance into society.”
“No, I am very glad to have them with me.”
It was not simply a polite phrase, Hope realized. He meant it. She looked at him thoughtfully. “But is it not a great bother, having to take them on outings and keep them entertained? Most people I know would leave that to a governess.”
He gave her a dry look and said, “We have tried governesses, but they never seem to take. Cassie is something of a handful.”
Her eyes twinkled at him. “You could always send them away to school,” she said lightly.
“I would never send them away, never!” He spoke so vehemently it surprised them both. They strolled on for some moments, but his vehemence hung in the air between them.
He kept glancing back to check on his sisters.
She said with mild reproof, “My twin is very responsible, and we’ve known James all our lives. I know you don’t approve of his skills as a groom, but I assure you he is both sturdy and protective.”
At her words he jumped, as if pulled back from some unpleasant thought. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be uncivil.” He said, then added awkwardly, “I lost them once, you see.”
“Lost them?”
“Yes. I left them with a woman, paid her to take care of them. But she took them away, and so I lost them.” His arm was stiff under her hand, and the hand covering hers gripped hard. She was sure he was unaware of it.
“How long did you lose them for?”
There was a long pause before two bitter words rasped out. “Too long.”
She wondered how long was too long, but he’d said it with such bitter self-recrimination she didn’t like to ask. Instead she said, “I’m sure you are too hard on yourself. Surely your parents should carry the main responsibility for your sisters’ care.”
He shook his head. “My parents were dead. It was my fault.” He stared out across the gray surface of the lake. He looked so desolate, she wanted to hug him.
She pressed his hand sympathetically. “I’m sure it was not your fault, entirely, Mr. Reyne. And you obviously found them again, safe and well, so is it not time to forgive yourself?”
He looked down at her hand resting on his and frowned as he realized how he’d been holding her. He pulled his hand away and said awkwardly. “I don’t know why I told you that. I . . . I didn’t mean to.”
“I’m honored by your confidence,” she assured him. “How did you hurt your hand?”
Instantly he thrust it in his pocket. “I’m sorry,” he repeated. “I know it is hideous. I did not expect—”
“It isn’t hideous in the least!” she interrupted fiercely. “It is merely a hand with two damaged fingers. And if you want to know the truth, I liked the way you covered my hand with yours. It felt . . . nice. Warm. Strong.”
Knowing she had gone too far, she blushed and looked away. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. Please forget it.” She tried to tug her hand out from his arm, but he kept it pressed tight to his side.
“Stay, lass.” There was command, as well as a faint hint of brogue in the way he said it.
She stared up at him. He stared back, her arm pressed possessively against his side. She could feel his heart thudding. His eyes seemed to devour her. Slowly, slowly his hand rose until it touched her cheek, so lightly and tenderly that if it was not for the heat radiating from him, she would never have felt it. She could not help herself; of its own volition her cheek rubbed against him. His eyes blazed, and she lifted her face to his in mute invitation. He cupped her jaw, stared at her a long, long moment, and slowly lowered his mouth toward hers. Hope leaned forward and clutched him and—there was a splash and a scream.
“The girls!” He dropped her and ran back the way they’d walked.
Hope stood there, trembling, poised on the edge of . . . nothing. He’d been about to kiss her, right there among the willow fronds. And disgraceful as she knew it to be, she would have let him. In fact, she would have kissed him right back. Shamelessly.
