She shook her head, eyes round.
“Because they’re not there to eat you, my dear—they’re there toprotectyou. If ever something wicked crept near, they’d dart out quick as a flash and gobble it up.”
Emma gasped. “Truly?”
“Truly,” Neil said, smiling. “So you see, you’re quite safe.”
“But what about you, and Jenny, and Maggie?”
Neil blinked. “Who’s Maggie?”
Emma giggled. “Miss Winter, of course. Jenny calls her Maggie.”
Miss Winter coloured slightly. “Jenny and I are friends,” she said. “It seemed simpler to use our given names.”
He nodded. “Your name is Margaret, is it not?”
“It is,” she said with a small smile. “But I haven’t beenMargaretin a long while.”
“It suits you,” he murmured.
Neil was not sure what had possessed him to say such a thing. It was entirely too intimate a comment to make, but then, the entire situation was too intimate. Here they were, sitting entirely too close in a darkened nursery, after the rest of the house had gone to bed. Maggie’s hand rested by Emma’s side, on top of the blankets. If he reached out, just a few inches, his fingers would brush hers. At once, the memory of her warm, supple hand in his came crashing back, and Neil found his chest constricting around his lungs, as if it were trying to choke him.
Miss Winter—Maggie—glanced up at him. In the flickering candlelight, her eyes seemed darker and more intent, fixed on him with a silent question.
If only he knew what the question was.
“You seem to be doing very well here,” he said hoarsely. “Emma is quite devoted to you.”
“She’s such a sweet child,” Maggie murmured. “So easy to love.”
Neil swallowed. “I think she should learn the pianoforte. You may make the arrangements. You’ll find the only instrument is in Catherine’s morning room.”
Her eyes widened. “Are you certain, your Grace?”
“Yes. It’s time. And—you may have noticed—we have guests in the house. Emma will dine with us now and then. I should like you to join us, if you’re willing.”
Her gaze fixed on him, steady and unreadable. “Of course,” she said softly.
“Good. I shall look forward to it.”
He gave a stiff nod and almost fled the room.
Chapter Twelve
Lady Constance broke the top of her boiled egg with a neat, decisivecrack. She scooped out the insides with a small spoon, spreading the runny yolk and translucent white over a morsel of bread.
Neil hated eggs. He knew they were a proper and expected staple of the breakfast table, so he had ordered them served, but he despised them all the same: the smell, the taste, the cloying texture. Aunt Harriet, with her usual tact, confined herself to bacon and kippers, but Lord Farendale and Lady Constance seemed intent on consuming their weight in eggs.
Lady Farendale ate nothing, only sipped tea and stared into space.
“Do you hunt, your Grace?” Lord Farendale blustered when the silence had grown uncomfortably long. “I declare, these woods are thick with deer. Saw them myself as we came along. Rabbits and foxes, too.”
Neil gave a thin smile. “I do not hunt, Lord Farendale. My apologies.”
The man’s face fell, his mouth opening as though to argue. Lady Constance interposed neatly.
“What a pity your sweet little niece could not join us at the table, your Grace. I quite long to make her acquaintance.”
