Page 17 of Redemption of a Marquess

“Of course. Anywhere you go, Miss Stone goes.”

The lady looked startled. “Forgive me, my lord, but I do not have a gown for such grand parties.”

“Hmm.” He looked at Jeanine. “May I ask how many gowns you own?”

“Three ball gowns and one day dress.”

“Just as I thought.” Valan glanced at the mantle clock. 5:45.

He rose and crossed to the small secretary located near the hearth. He jotted a note to the modiste, then tugged the bell pull. Baldwin appeared before he’d returned to his seat.

“Baldwin, please have this note sent to Mrs. Morgan. She lives on the end of Bryant Street, a modest brick building, if I recall. Wait for a reply. If she is able to come now, please fetch her.” He handed the note to the steward.

Baldwin bowed, then left.

“I don’t see why you must buy new gowns,” Jeanine said.

Valan returned to his chair. “Would you rob Miss Stone of the pleasure of new gowns?”

“Oh, you’re right, of course.”

“Of course.” Valan reached for his tea, then decided something stronger was called for. He went to the sideboard, and poured a liberal dose of scotch into a glass tumbler.

“You need not trouble yourself on my account, sir,” said Miss Stone.

Valan returned to his seat, swirled the liquor and took a sniff before drinking half the liquid. He looked at her and smiled politely. “As I will not sew the dresses, it is no trouble for me.”

“But the expense,” Miss Stone said.

Valan regarded them. “I wonder at my good fortune to find the only two women in Scotland who care nothing for new dresses.”

“No one said we didn’t care,” Jeanine said. “But, really, how many dresses does a woman need?”

“How many, indeed?” he repeated softly.

* * *

Jeanine started to open the library door, then paused and knocked.

“Enter,” the marquess called.

She opened the door. Despite the gloomy weather, the red of the wall paint and deep blues of the curtains gave the room a warm feel. To her left, French doors paned with glass stood open to reveal a quaint balcony. Opposite the balcony doors, books filled ceiling-high cherrywood shelves. A rolling ladder leaned against the shelves to the right of the marquess’s desk, where he sat, a quill in hand. He’d paused his letter writing to watch her.

She smiled. “I like this room.”

“I am deeply gratified.” His attention returned to his letter. “To what do I owe the honor of your visit this morning?”

“Visit? We live in the same house.”

“In this large house, it is conceivable that we might not see one another for weeks.”

“Weeks?” She crossed to the chair opposite his desk and sat down. “That is terrible. I will see you every day.”

“How fortunate for me,” he said dryly.

“You do not wish to see me?”

“I am always pleased to see you,” he said. “But I expect you will be busy, what with today’s party and your lessons in Latin and French, sewing, shopping and dress fittings—” he spared her a glance “—I assume you have more fittings?”