“They are not…?”
“Mine? They are now. They were my cousin Peter’s girls. Both he and their mother were lost to the influenza.”
“Poor babes.” Poor Lord Coleford, obviously caught in a dilemma. “They have no other recourse?”
He betrayed himself with a quick flash of anger in those sea-bright eyes. It was the frown that followed that pulled at Georgie even more strongly, since she suspected it was weighted with the burden of fragile little girls.
“A grandmother,” he said with another shake of his head. “If you are here long enough, you might well meet her. She frequently descends, hoping to catch me in the act of locking them in the attic and making them live on water and mouse droppings.”
“She must love them quite a bit.”
His glare was brief but furious. “Their money, rather. Their grandfather was wise enough to protect their dowries from his son. But that is a topic for another time. Thank you for saving Sophie from herself.”
Now her smile was genuine. “You have your hands full with that one. She’s bright as a penny.”
“She is five and wishes to adopt the lion at the Tower.”
“Perhaps a kitten instead.”
His scowl was belied by a certain twinkle in his eyes. “Brutus would have the thing for breakfast.”
“I assume that is the horse under the table who was doing away with the dropped bun bits.”
“It’s what I call him. Irish wolfhound.”
“Yours?”
“Good Lord no. Theirs. I’m actually quite surprised he let you near the girls. He is quite protective.”
Georgie nodded. “A good thing, with Sophie’s independent streak.”
“It’s just too bad we can’t train him to catch Sophie when she climbs.”
“So, the shelves aren’t the first ascent?”
“Just the latest.”
Georgie kept wanting to reach out to him, just to make physical contact. “That must be a lot to come home to, along with everything else.”
That quickly, his mood cooled. He raised one eyebrow. “How is it I can help you?” he asked in a manner of officers everywhere reclaiming the conversation. After all they had discussed, this had evidently been the step too far.
Georgie drew in a breath. Now that she was for it, she had no idea how to broach the subject. “My lord...”
She got yet another scowl, this one of impatience. “I would prefer Grey, if you don’t mind,” he said. “Or Greyville. I have yet to accommodate myself to a title that was never meant to be mine.”
Georgie nodded in commiseration. “I am sorry.”
He scowled. “Not nearly as sorry as I. If I may say so, I make an exemplary soldier. I suspect my skills will not be quite what is needed for a marquessate.”
“Don’t be silly,” she retorted. “You have been notorious for your quick thinking, your courage, your determination, your adaptability. I suspect all will be needed.”
His expression of horror was comical. “Good God. You don’t read dispatches, do you? Didn’t your brother tell you that most of what is written is to encourage the public to pay more taxes?”
Georgie kept finding herself smiling, this time to acknowledge the truth. “My youngest brother is looking to a life in the army. I have been trying to instruct him so he can make an educated decision. Dispatches are his preferred primer.”
For a moment the marquess—Greyville—sat in silence. Georgie suspected he was wanting to tell her some truth, something never included in dispatches, which she had long since suspected had been purposely kept out of Michael’s letters as well. She held her breath, waiting.
In the end, he just shook his head. “You were about to tell me why you came.”
