“I’ll admit, the Brighton Road is not an easy one to travel, all twists and turns and hills, but I am happy to be away from London for a time,” I said.
Miss Everett harrumphed a smile, and Graham shot her aweighted glance; then, as though on cue, his sister clasped her hands together and turned her gaze to mine. “You must be in want of tea, Miss Lane. Shall I ring for some?”
“I would dearly love a cup,” I said.
Miss Everett nodded stiffly, then turned on a heel. I noticed a stack of papers half-scribbled on and creased on the desk just outside the drawing room, and as though he’d been watching my line of sight, Graham swept a hand across them and shoved them inside the drawer.
“Please don’t let me interrupt your day,” he said to his mother. “I have a mountain of paperwork to see to.”
“But you’ve only just arrived,” his mother protested, a look of longing aimed at her son that I understood all too well. She missed him. Like I missed Papa. Men like ours were never around long enough.
Graham cleared his throat and gave his mother a warm smile. So warm, I almost did not recognize him. “I have a busy week, and I must prepare.”
I wanted to laugh. He could prepare for a lifetime, and my answer would still—would always—be no.
“But you will join us for dinner, won’t you?” his mother asked.
He leaned in and kissed his mother’s temple. “Of course. I shall be in my study if you need me.” Then he turned to me, and there was a decided lack of warmth. “You as well, Miss Lane. You are the object of my attention this week. If there is anything you need—”
“Do not trouble yourself, Mr. Everett,” I said blandly. We both knew his good manners were only for show. “I am quite capable of taking care of myself.” I briefly met his gaze, then turned, angling away from him. By the looks of things, hisfamily was eager to have him home. I’d be doing us all a service by rejecting his investment offer.
He frowned, then bowed before stalking down the hall to some shadowed room.
His mother took my arm and laced it through her own as she led me toward the drawing room. “Forgive my son, Miss Lane. His mood comes and goes depending on the load he carries. After a good night’s rest, he shall be back to his cheery self.”
Cheery? I squeezed her arm tightly. Her son was a beast, but she was delightful.
The Everetts’ drawing room was quaint, well-kept, and clean. It was very simply furnished, save for the back corner, where stood the most exquisite and ornately carved harp. Lovely, but almost out of place against the dated carpets and the settee with its wooden arm chipped with age. None of it seemed to bother Mrs. Everett, though. Indeed, she seemed genuinely happy to receive me, and I was surprised by how instantly comfortable I felt in her presence.
Miss Everett took a seat beside me on the settee just as a servant came in with the tray, and Mrs. Everett, satisfied that we were settled, slipped out of the room.
Back straight, poised and purposeful, Miss Everett would not meet my eye as she poured the tea. “Do not feel obligated to eat, but our cook prepared a small service.”
“Thank you,” I said, helping myself to a little cake. My stomach rumbled; between my rushed morning and that horrible road, I hadn’t eaten a thing all day. “My father tells me you’ve not been in Brighton long. How do you find it?”
“We’ve lived here for almost a year,” she said, handing me a cup, then serving herself.
I got the distinct impression she would rather be somewhere else. Probably because of something Graham had told her about me. “Your home is very comfortable. Last I remember, you lived just outside of London. Did your brother drag you all the way out here?” I tried for humor, then took a sip and smiled warmly at her.
She patted her lips with a napkin, then stared at me with thinly veiled scrutiny. “My brotherledus here. He has worked tirelessly to make Highcliffe House what it is. Indeed, I daresay every book, every blanket, every flower is evidence of his effort and care. We are not among those who are given anything and everything they desire, so we are very grateful for our modest andcomfortablehome.”
Oof. I’d offended her. I swallowed, then set my cake down. She did not like me. Not at all. “I see,” I said.
“Do you?” she said with a wry smile. Again, she tilted her head and gave me such a look, I almost thought I was in a London ballroom vying against her for the most eligible bachelor.
I set my tea and plate aside. Best to get straight to the point. “Miss Everett. I am not sure what your brother has told you about me—”
“My brother’s happiness and success mean a great deal to me. He works exceptionally hard—ten times as hard as other men—to get the same result. Whether you approve of him or not, his home is more than sufficient for the likes of you.”
My eyes widened, then hers did too, as though she just realized how forward and rude she’d been. I could have taken offense, were I not easily able to respect and discern her intention to defend her brother at all costs. He’d likely whined about me, told his entire family how horrible I was. But whyon earth would she care if I approved of her brother? Disliked him, yes, but my approval of him did not matter. And I’d complimented his house! The girl rebounded my every word as though I’d smeared her brother’s name among theton. My dislike of him was no secret, but hersof me seemed entirely unfounded.
Mrs. Everett strode into the room, replacing her initial look of exhaustion with one of happy ease. “How do you find your tea, Miss Lane?”
“Perfectly warm,” I said amiably, then met Miss Everett’s tight smile and muttered, “Though a touch bitter.”
“Sugar?” Miss Everett showed her teeth, spooning a healthy portion into my cup.
Her mother did not notice; she was glancing about the room as though expecting to find something out of place.
