His words sent more tears tumbling down her cheeks. She wrestled with them, breaking off pieces of the dumpling.
“Can I tell you a . . . feeling?” She raised her head. “I cannot speak of this to anyone else and, yes, it festers within.”
“Of course.”
“You will think me a terrible person.”
“Impossible.”
The opposite, he didn’t add.I think you the loveliest thing.
She sat back. “I’m not sure my father liked me much.”
This surprised him. “How so?”
“My mother was a social creature. She craved the company of others and was always off visiting this place and that. But when she chose to appear in the nursery, she was a warm presence. However, my father . . . my father was a stern, distant figure. He only spoke to me when he found something to criticize.” She poked at her bit of dumpling. “He definitely showed more interest in my brothers, but I supposed that was to be expected. They’re male—the heir and the spare. I was female and therefore lesser.”
“Regardless of the reason, that’s a right terrible thing to bear.”
“Perhaps, but the day after our father died, Piers . . . or rather Grayburn, as I suppose I must call him now, became just as distant as our father. It was as if a fae spirit had stolen in overnight and replaced kind Piers with dreadful Grayburn.”
“Truly?”
She nodded. “He hasn’t said a kind word to me since. For example, I asked him if I looked ghastly in my mourning blacks. Gray looked me up and down before shrugging and walking away without a word. As if I were of no more note than a buzzing gnat.”
Tavish wanted to whisper that the mourning black itself was, indeed, dreadful, but only because she belonged in colors like those of meadow flowers.
“Piers would never have behaved so abominably,” she continued. “Hewould have put an arm around me and told me I looked lovely. But now that he is Grayburn, his former kindnesses have simply . . . vanished. Like a candle being blown out. Is it a requirement when becoming a duke? To put a barrier between yourself and your female relations?”
“I cannot say.”
“Is your father distant and cool toward your sisters?”
Tavish envisioned his father—his larger-than-life Da’ with a boom for a laugh and arms open to sweep anyone and everyone into a hug. That was part of the problem, Tavish reckoned. His father was rather indiscriminate with his affections, as barmaids, lonely widows, and the occasional London actress could attest. The man had been anything but discreet since the death of Tavish’s mother.
“Nae. My da’ is open and loving to a fault.”
Lady Isla swallowed, nodding her head again.
Neither of them said anything for a long moment.
“I greatly dislike that our families are enemies,” she said at last.
“Me, too.”
“We should be friends, you and I.” She pinned him with her blue eyes. “Set a good example for our families. Show them kindness is better than hatred.”
Again, so bold.
“I should like that.” He wiped his hands on his breeches and then extended his right hand across the table. “Friends.”
She slipped her slim hand into his.
The warmth of her bare skin against his sent fire licking up his arm.
And yet, her bones were so fragile in his grasp.
A tremendous rush of protectiveness surged through him. If her brothers were not going to look after her properly, Tavish was more than willing to do the job.
