“I really do not want to have anything to do with him,” he said unnecessarily, since she had not protested his latest no. “And I do not suppose for one moment that he wantsanything more to do with me. I do not know who on earth persuaded him to put in that appearance in court.”
He had been severely shaken at seeing his father for the first time ever. It had struck him too that his father had been seeinghimfor the first time. He was uneasily aware that they looked a bit alike. How could one look like a total stranger, who happened also to be one’s father?
Abby had suggested that they invite Viscount Dirkson to join them for coffee tomorrow morning. In vain had he reminded her that he was to take Katy riding on his horse in the morning—she had been wildly excited when he had suggested it even though it had been made clear to her that Mama and Nanny would not be accompanying them, or even Beauty. And he had already capitulated on the matter of a Westcott family tea tomorrow afternoon at the home of the Earl of Riverdale—a sort of welcome to the family for him as well as a farewell to them before they left for Gloucestershire within the next few days. Katy was even to be brought there to meet and play with her cousins in the nursery.
Now this. It was too much. It was the last straw.
“He was a friend of my father’s,” Abby said. “I daresay someone in the family informed him and he decided to attend.”
“Interfering busybodies,” he said.
“Yes.” Instead of bristling with indignation and giving him the quarrel for which he was itching, she laughed.
There was a lengthy silence, during which she kept her head where it was and slid one hand down his arm to cover the back of his hand. He did not turn his hand over to grasp hers. The wiles of women. They did not play fair at all.
“It would have to be early in the morning,” he said irritably. “I promised Mrs. Evans I would come for Katy at half past ten.”
“I shall write now, then,” she said, “and have the letter delivered tonight. I will invite him to join us here for breakfast at half past eight.”
“He will not come,” he said.
“That will be his choice,” she said. “But you will have asked.”
“Youwill have asked,” he said.
“Yes.” She rubbed her fingers over the back of his hand before getting to her feet and crossing to the desk, where there were paper and pens and ink.
He walked over there a little later, when he was aware that she was folding and sealing the letter she had written.
“Abby.” He leaned over her and set his lips against the back of her neck. “This isnota good idea.”
“Then you will be able to blame me forever after,” she said, getting to her feet and turning toward him.
He took her in his arms and held her head against his shoulder.
“You care,” he said.
“Yes.”
“Why?” he asked.
“Because you are my husband,” she said.
•••
Abigail answered the knock on the door at precisely half past eight the following morning. Gil had left word at the desk downstairs last night that they were expecting a visitor and he might be allowed to come up unannounced.
He had hoped with all his being through a night of disturbed sleep, during which he ought to have been delighting in memories of the two meetings with his daughter, that the man would not come. He could not even think of himby name. Certainly not as his father. He hated the fact that now he could put a face to that nameless someone. And that he had been weak enough to give in to his wife’s persuasions. Though he must not be unfair. She had not nagged at him after she had made the suggestion and he had said no.
Surely the man would not come, he had thought earlier this morning and again a few minutes ago when waiters had arrived in their sitting room with breakfast for three on covered warming dishes and a large pot of steaming coffee and had set the table for three.
But he had come. Abby was opening the door and smiling.
“Lord Dirkson,” she said, extending her right hand. “It is so good of you to have come.”
And he stepped into the room and took her hand and bowed over it. Gil hated the fact—hatedit!—that even he could see the resemblance between himself and this man, who was tall and trim of figure with silvering hair and sharp, angular features set in lines that suggested cynicism and hard living.
“Mrs. Bennington,” he said. “You will not remember this, but I met you when you were Lady Abigail Westcott and all of two or three years old. You had escaped from the nursery at the house on South Audley Street and had come to greet your papa’s visitor. There was no sign of your brother or your elder sister, and soon enough you were whisked away back to the safe confines of the nursery. In the meanwhile you had made me the prettiest of curtsies, and I had responded with my courtliest bow.”
