Upon reflection, she didn’t think so.
Also, he hadn’t tried it on with her.
That was new.
Most men of a type took one look at Tilly Birdwell and made up their minds to add her to their stable of female conquests.
Or to, at least, try.
They discovered right quick the error in their thinking.
But Lord Rhys… His eyes had shown his attraction, and he’d flirted a little, but he hadn’t seriously pursued a dalliance.
He’d treated her like someone he was interested in—not as someone to be seduced and discarded.
It had allowed her to relax and enjoy her fancy tea at Mivart’s.
A suspicion had entered her mind regarding Lord Rhys Osborne.
That he might not be like most lords.
That he might have a good heart.
But he didn’t seem all that acquainted with that part of himself, as the necessity to use it had likely never presented itself.
This was the case for most lords and ladies.
They built up a world of luxury around themselves so they never had to experience a genuine feeling in all their lives.
They never had to use their hearts.
After all, things like hearts and real feelings could be inconvenient, and if there was one thing aristocrats didn’t like, it was being inconvenienced.
Lord Rhys, it surprised her to think, might not be like that.
Of course, she’d been wrong about lords before.
But then she’d been sixteen, and Sir Felix had been an accomplished deceiver.
Now that was something she and Lord Rhys had in common, wasn’t it? They’d both been on the deceived end when it came to their dealings with Sir Felix Mortimer.
She entered the front door of Hope House, and her feet stuttered to an immediate stop. Usually, Hope House was a place of quiet and stillness—calm. Today, it sounded as if Bedlam itself had relocated within its four walls, so noisy and energetic was the air. A child with a gold bow affixed to the top of his head streaked past, a second boy charging fast on his heels. A sudden squeal of laughter erupted from the drawing room door they’d bounded through.
Actually, several squeals of laughter.
Tilly took a step in that direction to investigate—a suspicion of what or who might provoke such an atmosphere forming and firming in her mind in the same instant—when a voice sounded at her back, “Tilly, we have a visitor.”
She twisted around to find Lucy had joined her in the foyer. Tilly supposed she should call the step-daughter of her employer Miss Bretagne, but she’d always called her Lucy. Lucy returned the favor by calling her Tilly. An arrangement that suited them both.
“What sort of visitor is that?” Though Tilly knew.
“A male one.” That male held more than a hint of exasperation.
“Oh?”
“A lord, in fact.”
“Lawks, fancy as all that?”
