He took a few steps in the direction of the house but then stopped and looked back at Claudia.
“Come with us?” he said. “Come and watch Lizzie for me?”
She nodded and fell into step beside him. What an awful ending to the picnic for those who were left behind, she thought. But perhaps not. It was certainly a picnic no one was going to forget in a hurry. It would doubtless be the subject of animated conversation for days, even weeks to come.
It was a solemn procession that made its way to the house, except for Horace, who darted ahead and raced back, all panting breath and lolling tongue as if this were a new game devised entirely for his amusement. Viscount and Viscountess Ravensberg came along behind them and caught up with the marquess when they were near the house.
“Where did you find her, Joseph?” the viscountess asked softly.
“There is a little hut in the woods on the other side of the bridge,” the marquess said. “She was in there.”
“Ah,” the viscount said, “we must have forgotten to lock it the last time we were there, Lauren. We sometimes do forget.”
“And thank heaven we did,” she said. “She is so sweet, Joseph, and of course she looks like you.”
And then they all reached the house, and the viscount directed everyone to the library.
The marquess did not follow them. He led the way upstairs, and Claudia went with him to his room, a large, comfortable guest chamber overlooking the eastern flower garden and the hills beyond. Claudia drew back the covers from the canopied bed, and he set Lizzie down in the middle of it. He sat beside her and held her hand.
“Papa,” she said, “youtoldthem.”
“Yes,” he said, “I did, did I not?”
“And now,” she said, “everyone will hate me.”
“My mother does not,” he said, “and Cousin Neville does not. Neither does Cousin Lauren, who just told me you are sweet and look like me. If you had had eyes to see a few minutes ago, you would have seen that most people were looking at you with liking and sympathy—and happiness that you were safe.”
“Shehates me,” she said. “Miss Hunt.”
“I think,” he said, “it is me she hates at the moment, Lizzie.”
“Will the girls hate me?” she asked.
It was Claudia who answered.
“Molly does not,” she said. “She was weeping just now because she was so happy to see you again. I cannot speak for the others, but I will say this. I am not sure it is a good idea to try to win love by pretending to be what we are not—you are not an orphaned charity girl, are you? It is perhaps better for all of us to risk being loved—or not—for who we really are.”
“I am Papa’s daughter,” Lizzie said.
“Yes.”
“Hisbastarddaughter,” she added.
Claudia saw him frown and open his mouth to speak. She spoke first.
“Yes,” she agreed. “But that word suggests someone who is resented and unloved. Sometimes our choice of words is important, and one of the wonders of the English language is that there are often several words for the same thing. It would be more appropriate, perhaps, to describe yourself as your papa’s illegitimate daughter or—better yet—as his love child. That is exactly what you are. Though it is not necessarilywhoyou are. None of us can be described by labels—even a hundred labels or a thousand.”
Lizzie smiled and lifted a hand to stroke her father’s face.
“I am yourlovechild, Papa,” she said.
“You certainly are.” He caught her hand and kissed the palm. “And now I must go downstairs, sweetheart. Miss Martin will stay with you, though I daresay you will be asleep in no time. You have had a busy day.”
She yawned hugely as if to prove him right.
He got to his feet and looked at Claudia. She smiled ruefully at him. He half shrugged his shoulders and left the room without another word.
“Mmm,” Lizzie said as Horace jumped up onto the bed to curl up against her, “the pillow smells of Papa.”
