Page 11
Breathing out a long sigh, Ronan stretched his legs out before him, relaxing against the plush claret-colored squabs. After lowering his hat, he closed his bleary eyes. He dozed the entire twenty-minute ride to Pelandale House in Grosvenor Square and awoke with a start when the coach door opened.
A brisk blast of damp air slapped his face.
A fitting homecoming.
Ronan, how desperately I wish you were in London. I could use your advice, brother.
I’ve met someone. Someone exceptional, and I know with absolute certainty that our
pompous elder brother, and likely Mother and Father as well, will heartily disapprove.
~ Benjamin Brockman in a letter to his brother, Ronan Brockman
Sent but never received
Grosvenor Square, Mayfair
London, England
Pelandale House - home of the very impatient Marquess of Trentholm
Slightly later in the morning, but still too bloody early
“My lord, we have arrived,” Pillington intoned with the same degree of enthusiasm a bored student might recite the Prince Regent’s genealogy for the past five centuries.
Ronan shoved upright and sighed, pushing his hat atop his head.
He pinched the bridge of his nose for a long moment, hoping and failing to ease the persistent tempo pounding unmercifully in his noggin.
Best to get on with it.
The sooner he’d satisfied whatever it was his sire required, the sooner he could find his mattress again. If he’d slept more than four hours in a row on the merchant ship during the return voyage from America, he’d sing an aria this Christmastide.
Which was to say, he had not slept more than four hours sequentially at any given time and, therefore, would not impose such an atrocity on humankind.
Ronan did not have a singing voice.
In truth, he was tone deaf as a tree trunk and, as a kindness to the world at large, had long since ceased even so much as humming. Ironically, he could play the pianoforte quite well, but that was only because he either read or memorized the music.
Ever diplomatic, Pillington stood to the side, looking directly ahead.
“Thank you, Pillington.”
Ronan had scarcely reached the top riser before the front door opened, and Sturges bowed.
“Welcome home, my lord,” the butler greeted warmly, his eyes twinkling with genuine affection. He’d never addressed Ronan as lieutenant, even when he’d been in the navy.
“Thank you, Sturges. It’s good to be home.”
The thought of enjoying one of Mrs. Cullen’s hearty breakfasts made Ronan’s mouth water. He hadn’t eaten a decent sausage in months, nor bread pudding.
“His lordship awaits you in his study,” the butler said, accepting Ronan’s hat, though he avoided meeting his eyes.
The study?
While Pillington’s countenance remained smooth as a stone under every conceivable circumstance, Sturges’s eyes gave away his every thought.
What the blazes was going on?
