Page 26

Since when had Broden McGregor heeded anything or anyone but himself? Just a few moments ago, she’d experienced rapture in his arms, carried away on a sea of bliss from his scorching kisses, and now she could easily poke him with her fork.

In a matter of a few short minutes. From bliss to vexation. Euphoria to exasperation.

Mrs. McGregor patted Broden’s forearm with her wrinkled hand as he slid deftly into the seat next to his mother.

Kendra staunchly denied the flip of her stomach was anything near disappointment. Naturally, he’d sit next to his mother out of respect for the gentle lady. Taking a seat beside Kendra would also raise Liam’s suspicions since he knew first-hand their aversion to one another.

Her aversion that most definitely appeared to be waning.

Waning?

Women didn’t tangle tongues with men they disliked.

“I’d like to speak to the innkeepers today,” Broden said as he acknowledged the steaming cup of coffee and plate piled high with food Simmons placed before him with a thankful dip of his strong chin. “Tomorrow, I’m off to Sommerley Parke House to meet the countess and my five wards—”

“Ye have wards?” Kendra exclaimed on an undignified and astonished squeak, jerking her head up to gape.

“Aye. Five lasses rangin’ from a month’s old infant to a nine-year-old. Their mother is the countess.” He wrinkled his forehead. “I dinna ken the wee lasses’ names. I imagine all of those details are in the stacks of documents atop my desk.”

During his recovery, they’d talked little of his new title. While he’d been recuperating. Kendra didn’t feel it was her place to pry, and he’d been remarkably closed-mouth about the change in his circumstances.

However, she did have the distinct impression he wasn’t altogether keen on being the newest Earl of Montforth. Evidently, the title came with more than an honorific, lands, and wealth.

Five wards.

And a countess. Dinna forget the countess.

Just how old was this countess? Was she beautiful? Refined?

No doubt.

Finding that train of thought troubling, Kendra switched to another.

She’d never imagined Broden in the role of a father, let alone a guardian—to five small girls.

To her knowledge, he hadn’t been around children all that much. Heaven help his wards if one or two or all became enamored of him. God only knew what he might say or do to scar their little souls to discourage their infatuation.

Unfair,her conscience chided.

He’d been deep into his cups the night she’d eavesdropped on him. To hold something against him that had occurred years before, something he had no knowledge he’d done, wasn’t just. Nor was it mature or healthy.

Kendra had accepted those truths years ago. Had known she needed to let the childishness go. She was an adult. Far past time she put her injured pride to rest. But every time she intended to act upon that wisdom, he’d done something to incense her again.

Mrs. McGregor stirred her tea, the lace cap covering her gray-peppered hair, fluttering slightly at her movement.

Kendra couldn’t help but like the Scotswoman. Her devotion to her son was endearing, and she’d gone out of her way not to be an imposition during her stay. Nary a cross word had come from her mouth, which curved upward increasingly as her son’s health improved.

She and Mother had spent several hours together knitting in the rose salon while Broden napped in the afternoons, the times Mrs. McGregor had declined to take a rest herself. The orphans in the foundling home would all have new caps this winter thanks to the two ladies’ busy hands.

“I must say, I never expected the day would come that any son of mine would inherit the earldom.” Mrs. McGregor sliced a glance at Liam as she raised her teacup. Her attention slid to Kendra over the cup’s rim.

“I dare say, none of us could’ve predicted such a thing,” Liam said politely, before directing a wry grin at Broden.

“We’ve quite a convoluted family tree,” she said, inspecting the plate of food before her. “Branches stickin’ out in every which direction. Quite a prolific family, too.” Squinting, she aimed her regard upward in contemplation. “If I recall correctly, Broden inherited the title from the line of his great great-grandfather’s youngest brother.”

Broden turned to look at her, his hawkish brows knitting together. “Ye kent I was in line to inherit?”

Picking up her fork, she gave a little offhand shrug of one plump shoulder. “I kent a remote possibility existed, but I truly didna expect it. After all, Standish was a younger son. And his father was a younger son. I tell ye,” she said, waving the eating utensil, “that family has had a wicked run of bad luck in the past decade.”