“Yes,” she answered, “and she him.”
Only she did not elaborate, tromping on in silence through the snow for some while longer.
After a time he hazarded to speak again. “And what of your plans for your sister, Charles? She is old enough to wed, is she not? Has she a beau, perhaps a suitor in the village?”
She looked at him with surprise. “Why do you ask, my lord?”
“Why?” he feigned. “Why, that is what women talk about, is it not?”
“You did not ask the same of me.” She sounded hurt.
“You did not, upon our initial encounter, make the same impression your sister did when I first met her.” He chose to be honest, though she walked on more purposefully.
“Charles . . .”
“It is nothing to me, sir.”
He could tell that it was.
“Eleanor ought to have a suitor by now, it’s true.” She revealed more. “She is twenty. She is well bred. She ought to have a season in London and I intend to give her one just as soon as I have means.”
“I see,” he replied, not seeing at all, for why in the world would her sister need a London season to make herself a match?
“And I appreciate your offer to occupy my father this morning, my lord, as there are things I wish to discuss with my sister in private.”
“I shall be happy to.” He meant it.
“And I would appreciate if you did not interest yourself further in my family’s affairs.”
“I beg your pardon,” he uttered, irked. “I meant no disrespect in asking about your sister, Charles.”
“I realize that, sir, but it is unseemly for a person of your status to concern himself with servant affairs, and so I do not?—”
“Charles, surely you realize you are more to me than mere servant.”
She stopped in her tracks and looked at him. “No, my lord, I am merely your servant in bed. But a mistress is still a servant, so I would prefer you not cross that line by?—”
“Damn it, Charles.” He grabbed her arm so she’d not stomp off. “You are more to me and you know it!”
Only he saw in her eyes that she did not know, not at all, for she looked at him so queerly he felt a shudder twist his soul.
“Please do not pretend, Lord Wellesley.” Her eyes betrayed hurt. “I have told you before that such tenderness is painful to me. I appreciate your concern, truly, and the kindness you now show me, but we both know full well what I am to you. There is no need to lie. In fact, I would prefer if you did not.”
He was shocked, for her words, much as he disliked them, rang true. He might well feel more for her than he should, but he could never act upon those feelings in any meaningful way and so to proclaim them, honestly or not, did her no good—and might only do her harm.
“Forgive me, Charles, you are right, of course.” He took her arm brusquely again in his own and began to walk them up the path towards her father’s house. “I’d no right to speak as I just did. I’ll not let it happen again, you’ve my word.”
And though it appeared to pain her to say it, she agreed. “Thank you, my lord.” She squeezed his arm even as the door opened to Miss Eleanor, eyes wide with joy, warmly welcoming them in.
“You’re a damn fine chess player, boy,” Merrinan proclaimed for the umpteenth time as Wells slid his piece across the board. “As good as Charles, I’d say.”
“You taught your daughter well, sir.” Wells smiled at the old man. They were seated in Mr. Merrinan’s sparse kitchen, at the sole table in the house.
“Not my daughter, fool, Charles Wellesley.” He scowled at him.
“You knew my Uncle Carlton?” Wells asked, thinking the gentleman quite batty.
“Knew him? Christ, boy, served with himandyour father. Two bloody campaigns! Two campaigns . . .” He sank in upon himself, lost again in thought.
