He lifted one gloved hand.
And miraculously, like some primal command too old for words, the effect was immediate. The woman’s tirade caught in her throat like a bird hitting glass.
He had already realized that he did not recognize her face. Beyond a vague recollection of lace, pearls, and shrill laughter from some long-ago gathering, she could have been any lady from any place he accidentally happened to frequent. And he most certainly did not know her daughter.
Ruined?He had not so much as spoken to a young lady in… years.Not willingly at any rate.His brow creased slightly, as if the lines of her outrage had to be translated into a language he had no wish to learn.
Still, he straightened. Politeness, after all, cost less than scandal.
“You, dear lady, have arrived uninvited to my estate, hurling accusations with the force of a cavalry charge, and I am now left to stand here and piece together what crime I am meant to have committed.”
Her mouth opened again, but something had shifted in her eyes. A flicker of hesitation.
Ah,thereit was.
She had just remembered that she was not speaking to some penniless rake or minor baron’s son but toaduke in his own drive, nonetheless, with the full height of Aberon Hall behind him and a stable full of servants at his back.
Robert let the silence stretch.
Then, with a faint, cold incline of his head, he added, “Mrs. Hargrave will show you to the drawing room. I shall join you… momentarily.”
The woman pressed her lips together. The fire in her cheeks had not faded, but the blaze had dimmed into something more tightly controlled, almost more calculating. She gave a sharp, stiff nod, gathered what remained of her dignity, and swept into the house without another word.
The wind stirred his coat again as the door shut behind her.
Robert remained where he was, gloved hands resting behind his back. A low, irritated sigh escaped him as he turned his gaze out over the long gravel path. He had meant only to inspect the fencing. Ride the south edge. Return for breakfast and silence and a few blessed hours with no one expecting anything of him.
Instead, a pink carriage, a shrieking matron, and now some imagined scandal involving a daughter he could not name.
He scowled, deeply. “What in thedevil’s name,” he muttered to himself, “happened to my peaceful bloody day?”
Several minutes later, his boots made no sound as he entered the drawing room. The air inside was thick with rose perfume and agitation. The woman was not seated. Instead, she was shifting from foot to foot like a woman trying to decide whether to faint or take command of a cavalry regiment. She had removed her gloves but not her bonnet. It seemed to be an unspoken signal of battle-readiness, and Robert noted it with dry amusement.
Still, he said nothing.
Instead, he walked slowly to the sideboard, his coat brushing faintly against the carved edge of the walnut cabinet. The decanter stood waiting.
Thank God for Mrs. Hargrave.
He uncorked it with an ease that suggested this was not the first morning to go sideways before luncheon. The liquid sloshed gently into the glass. It was of amber color, a Highland single malt, certainly older than the girl he was apparently meant to have ruined.
He took a sip in silence. The lady cleared her throat, but he did not turn. He took another sip, and only then, finally, he pivoted to face her. He had one hand in his pocket and the glass held lightly in the other. He was, as always, calm. Annoyed, yes, but not surprised. That would have implied he still expected the world to behave sensibly.
“Now,” he said, voice low and measured, “would you mind telling me what happened?”
The woman’s lips twitched. The fire in her eyes had not returned, but the anxiety was back, prickling beneath her skin.
“My daughter,” she said, lifting her chin, “has said… certain things.”
His brow rose, just slightly.
She fumbled. “She told me that—thatsomethingoccurred. That she… gave herself to you. And that afterward, you were gone. There were rumors that you had died, and I—I came to see if it were true because if you are not dead, then by all rights, Your Grace, you ought to?—”
“Enough.”
His hand rose again. Not harsh nor cruel but final. It cut her off more cleanly than a blade. The other hand set his glass down.
“And your daughter is…?”
