Meredith lifted startled eyebrows. Trevor’s lips curled. It was obvious poor Mrs. Pritcher needed their assistance. Was it really so impossible to imagine he would offer to help? Did she think him a complete monster, devoid of all feelings of decency?
“I could never impose on your kindness, my lord,” Mrs. Pritcher said as she blinked at him though watery eyes.
“ ’Tis hardly an imposition,” Trevor said. “As Lady Meredith said, your sister needs you. Though it will be difficult trying to manage the household for the next few days without your expert guidance, I feel certain the staff will do their best.”
“A few days?” The housekeeper’s eyes widened. “What will the duke say if I am gone for so long?”
“You will leave the duke to me,” Trevor declared firmly. “Go and pack your satchel. I shall have the coach brought round to the front.”
Meredith helped the housekeeper gain her feet. Mrs. Pritcher dropped a respectful curtsy to him and then shuffled away, the serving maids bustling in her wake. Trevor sank down in a chair and allowed a footman to serve him breakfast and hot coffee. As he began eating, he noticed Meredith take the seat to his left.
“You were very kind toward Mrs. Pritcher,” Meredith said. “Thank you.”
Trevor raised his head. “You seemed rather surprised by my actions at first.”
“Well, it is a bit unorthodox for a man of your rank and position to bother with the problems of a servant.”
“Mrs. Pritcher has taken care of my family for over twenty-five years. She deserves our consideration at such a desperate time.”
“I could not agree more.”
Trevor caught Meredith’s eye, and a moment of silent understanding passed between them. He could almost feel her admiration and regard for him, her pride in his decision. The sounds of the footman moving about the dining room faded, and for just an instant nothing existed except the two of them, sharing this moment together.
He remembered how she had felt in his arms last night, so giving and sweet, so incredibly hot and willing—the taste of her mouth and tongue, the hardness of her nipples, the slick dew of excitement that soaked his fingers as he rubbed her feminine softness.
His loins tightened, but Trevor steeled himself against the tempest of desire rising through him. Though he knew she could never really understand it, for he barely understood it himself, the respect he felt for her overruled his sexual drive.
Since he felt incapable of providing her with the level of love and commitment he knew she craved, and, yes, so richly deserved, he would not exploit her natural sensuality.
Though by all the saints in heaven, she was temptation beyond imagining.
“More coffee, my lord?”
Reality returned in a rush. Trevor tapped the edge of his cup and the footman obediently poured.
Mrs. Pritcher’s sister lived in the northern section of London, in a respectable middle-class neighborhood of clerks and tradesmen of steady, modest means. Though the housekeeper did an admirable job of keeping her composure during the short carriage ride, she became visibly emotional when they arrived at their destination.
“I think it would be best if I accompany her to the door,” Meredith said as she scrambled out of the carriage. “To make certain she is all right.”
“I might as well come also,” Trevor decided. “I can convey our condolences to the family.”
Meredith nodded. Flanked on each side by her noble employers, Mrs. Pritcher made the short walk to the front door. The woman who promptly answered their knock bore little resemblance to the housekeeper, but her hysterical outburst and subsequent embrace left little doubt as to her identity. Somehow, amid the weeping and sobbing, Meredith became swept up by the two sisters and was whisked off to a room toward the back of the small house.
Trevor soon found himself standing alone in the cramped foyer. He was about to return to the carriage and wait for his wife when a young voice called out.
“Who are you?”
The marquess looked down and found a pair of bright, inquisitive eyes staring up at him. They belonged to a young lad of perhaps ten or eleven years old, who must have slipped into the space during all the hysterical commotion. Deciding it would be best to keep his answers simple, Trevor replied, “I came with your aunt.”
The boy took a step closer. He was dressed in what was most likely his Sunday best, a pair of black knickers, white stockings, cumbersome shoes, and a white shirt. A black armband threatened to fall below his elbow and he had a smudge of dirt on the cuff of his left sleeve.
“The buttons on your coat are very fancy. Are you the duke?”
Trevor smiled. “No.”
The child seemed disappointed by the answer. He hung his head and scuffed the tip of his shoe against the wooden floor. “My sister’s dead.”
That calm, matter-of-fact announcement startled Trevor, but then he realized it must be the way of children. To treat something they did not truly understand with commonplace normalcy.
