With a grim smile, he continued before she could even think how to respond.
“Whereas Master Tonks has been so good as to recognise that I am agentleman, with all that entails.Noblesse oblige,et cetera. I suppose one ought to at least pay occasional lip service to the idea, lest the peasants rise up in revolt one day and we all go the way of the French.”
If he thought ending that speech in society’s bantering wit would lessen its impact, he was wrong. Madelaine stared at him, eyes dropping from the glint in his eyes to the faintly mocking smile on his lips and then down further, to the now-ruffled state of his neckcloth, and finally, to the dampened patches on his waistcoat where the bath had splashed him. The fabric was a grey so dark as to be almost black—indeed, the wet patcheswereblack—and it was subtly patterned, a brocade that shimmered like the dark underside of a butterfly’s wing, the pattern visible only where the light caught it. Such beautiful fabric. So unlike her brown-striped cotton. How long would it be before the turpentine smell washed out?
“I…” She needed some of the boy’s bravado now, to stand up to Lord Cotereigh. Instead, all she had was the boy’s confusion about why people were being nice.
“It is like charity…”Her own voice came back to her.“There are people who like to help people, simply because it is the right thing to do…”
Because none of this helped the man win his wager.
“You are very…good.” The doubtful way she uttered that last word made her wince. But it would be both easy and stupid to start believing Lord Cotereigh had a good heart beating underneath that pretty waistcoat. “I mean…you are being very good. To the boy. Thank you.”
He inclined his head, and whether it was amusement or embarrassment that crossed his face, she didn’t know, because he looked away and nodded to the armchair by the fire. “Asleep.”
His voice was still low, that soft rumble. They both looked at the boy for a moment, his head drooped against a wing of the armchair. He looked smaller and skinnier than ever in the large chair and the white nightdress. His dark hair was black, glinting in the firelight now that it was clean.
His bare feet didn’t quite touch the floor.
“I’ll carry him to a bedroom upstairs,” said Lord Cotereigh. “And yes,” he added, when she made to speak, “I’ll be mindful of his bruises.”
Thank you,was what she’d been going to say.
Thank you. You are very good.
It would be dangerous to believe it.
Thirteen
The boy weighed nothingat all.
He stirred and whimpered when Sebastian first picked him up then turned his face into Sebastian’s chest, at the crook between arm and ribs, and went back to sleep.
Such a tiny scrap of life, for all that he must be nine or ten years old. But he’d never be tall, even if he fattened out. Malnutrition stunted them, didn’t it? He’d read that once in the paper, some complaint from the army recruitment officers about how short and unhealthy the enlisted soldiers were. It hadn’t seemed to matter much. They’d all die anyway, shot to death or diseased. He’d turned to the business pages and continued his breakfast.
But somehow they didn’t all die. Like this collection of bone and sinew and suspicion. He was wiry, for all that he was skinny. He’d probably be strong too, once he was well and had some food inside him. A creature had to be to survive in the wild.
But still, the boy seemed delicate in Sebastian’s arms as he trod up the stairs. Small, and yet no end of trouble. Small,and yet he might lose Sebastian his wager. Small, and yet he’d brought both Sebastian and Mrs Ardingly to their knees. He could still smell the turpentine. The soap. He’d felt the accidental glance of her wet fingers against his. He’d seen the damp cotton that clung more finely to her form—finer than any tailor could fit cloth.
What a way to spend the day. And how ridiculous, when he had servants enough who could have done it. But she’d been determined to do the task herself, he’d seen that. And so he’d helped her to do it. Oh yes, he was doing a fine job of proving he had a heart. To the wrong woman.
But if Lady Frances had been witness, he could well imagine her bemused distaste. None of that would have impressed her, only made her think him soft in thehead, not the heart.
She didn’t care for his heart anyway. He knew that well enough. This current excuse was as much a test as it was a delaying tactic.
She wanted to know how much control she wielded over him. And how much would remain once they were married. She was too used to ruling her roost, was Lady Frances. And while she tested him, she was free to look around…
Sebastian shouldered open the door to a guest bedroom. It was the one furthest from his father’s room. The shouts of his ravings might reach through all the intervening walls, but only just.
Holding the boy, he couldn’t pull the bedcovers back, but it was a broad bed, so he put the boy down gently on one side, then pulled the covers over him from the other, cocooning him between the fold.
He stepped back cautiously, praying the boy didn’t wake. He waited a few moments to be sure before leaving the room and locking the door behind him, for the same reasons as he’d locked the room below.
When he returned to the Willow Room, he found Mrs Ardingly tending the fire, though they had no need of it now. He supposed she just liked to have something to tend.
“He’s asleep,” he said, closing the door behind himself then belatedly realising he shouldn’t have.
“That’s good.” Her eyes went from the closed door to him and then away, to the now-cold bath. Scummy, brown suds floated on the surface, but she’d mopped up the floor. Of course she had.
