Page 18 of Lord Hartwell’s Refuge

He nodded once. Then he was quiet again, watching Apollo circle back toward Henry with his loping grace, playfully splayed his paws in front of him and wagged his tail, daring the boy to catch him. This was an animal who knew exactly how to adjust his play for his playmate. Henry flung his arms around Apollo’s neck. Apollo wagged his tail, tolerant and enormous, and allowed it.

“He is good with children.” Tamsin complimented the animal before she could stop herself.

“He is good with people who are not afraid of him,” Lord Hartwell said, then paused. “As is Athena.” The female dog was trotting happily between Daisy and George in circles, but Tamsin could not guess who was leading who.

She glanced up at Lord Hartwell. He was examining her with an expression she couldn’t quite read—not calculating, not warm exactly, merely attentive. He seemed to be paying careful attention but trying not to look like he was paying attention.

She focused again on the occupants of the meadow.

“Miss Mayweather,” Lord Hartwell said after a moment. “Do you often walk in the city? Near the walls?”

An odd question. “When I can,” she said. “It is half an hour on foot. I do not always have the time for an idle stroll.”

“Of course.” Another pause. “York is—there is a great deal to see, if one has the time to enjoy it. There are treasures and beauty, right in plain sight. Yet I find that many who have lived there all their lives have not taken the time to properly look for it.”

It was not, she thought, the most natural observation she had ever heard. But there was something genuine underneath the awkwardness, real feeling surfacing briefly before he seemed to notice and return it from whence it came.

“I suppose we can all take things for granted, from time to time, when we have familiarity with the subject.” She thought of the church on Castlegate. The way it had stopped her without warning. “I have not looked as closely at York as I could have in the past. Perhaps that is a good thing.”

“In what way?” He tucked his hands behind his back, eyes trained on his dogs.

“I have much left to discover about the very place I live. I find myself rather looking forward to it, someday.”

He turned to look at her. For a moment, something in his expression shifted in a way she didn’t yet have language for. “That is a rather gratifying perspective.”

She met his steady gaze, puzzled. Why had he come from the city to their home? What had truly brought him and his dogs to her doorstep?

Before she could find a polite way to ask, he said, “Your stepmother called you Thomasine, and then another name I have never heard before. Tamsin.”

“Oh. Yes. Of course, my given name is Thomasine, after my mother’s father, Thomas. But the family has always called me Tamsin. My older brothers couldn’t pronounce my name. Too many syllables and vowels, I suppose. So they said ‘Tamsin,’ and it has been so ever since. I have always liked it.” Though why she admitted such to him, she did not know. “It is rather unique.”

“It is,” he agreed. “Though I must call you the longer Miss Mayweather, which is also many syllabled and voweled.”

Her eyebrows raised. What an odd thing to say. “I suppose.”

Had he smiled? Was he intimating something she did not understand? One ought not to demand a baron explain himself, but curiosity prickled at her tongue, and she nearly asked.

Then George fell over trying to mount Apollo, the moment dissolved, and Tamsin went to retrieve her grass-stained brother.

Chapter Seven

The fire in Roman’s dressing room had burned down to cinders by the time Dinsdale finished with his cravat, and Roman had been staring at his own reflection without really looking at it long enough that his valet had to clear his throat.

“Will that do, my lord?”

“Yes? Oh, yes. Thank you, Dinsdale.”

The valet withdrew, leaving Roman with the looking glass and the problem of his own behavior over the past four days.

He looked at his reflection. Jacket. Cravat. Hair. Everything in order. He looked exactly as he always looked for dinner, which was to say he looked like a man with nothing pressing on his mind.

An inaccurate image. Most inaccurate.

Still, the more like himself he appeared, the better.

“There will not be any objection,” he informed his reflection. “I am doing what is expected of me.” Though saying that and facing his family with his decision was another matter entirely.

Best consider the practical argument first. He had been assembling it ever since the carriage ride home, which had given him hours to think on it and produced the following logic: Miss Mayweather was a gentleman’s daughter of good character, respectable reputation, and clear intelligence. She was capable—demonstrably, exhaustingly capable. She was not being courted by anyone. Her family’s situation was such that a reasonable offer from a man of his position would be welcome.