Page 46
Only Ronan had already proven that to be a lie.
At once, the girls each seized her hands, their big brown eyes wary but inquisitive.
“Let’s go inside, shall we?” Mercy said softly to encourage them forward to where Ronan waited.
They filed past him, up the steps, and into the manor house.
Ronan followed behind.
“Welcome home, my lord,” Sturges said. He turned to Mercy and the girls and gave a noble dip of his head. “Welcome to Pelandale House. I am Sturges.”
“Thank you,” Ronan replied perfunctorily, pondering why his family wasn’t stampeding down the corridors to the foyer.
Mother and Father only had so much control over his three younger siblings. On the other hand, Sandford would never stoop so low as to rush, hurry, scramble, clamber, or any other verb which indicated haste and lack of self-possession.
“Thank you, Sturges,” Mercy said in her husky contralto that caused something to unwind in Ronan’s middle. “This is Miss Bellamy Masterson and her sister, Arabelle.”
“It is a pleasure, Miss Bellamy and Miss Arabelle.” The severe planes of the butler’s face softened into a warm smile. “The staff have awaited your arrival with great anticipation.”
The girls exchanged slightly less suspicious glances and even managed timid smiles.
Sturges could charm the blue out of the sky if he put his mind to it.
“Come, let’s see you out of your coats, shall we?” Mercy said.
As the females divested themselves of their outerwear, Ronan shrugged out of his greatcoat. “Are they in the drawing room?”
“Yes, my lord.” Sturges extended his hand for Ronan’s coat.
Ronan knew full well his family was aware he’d returned. Surprisingly, they hadn’t descended upon the new arrivals like winter fog on the River Thames. But then again, Mother would understand how overwhelming this was for Bellamy and Arabelle and had likely insisted on decorum.
He’d be bound that someone would defy her and bolt, however.
Mercy smoothed a hand over her gorgeous hair, the golden, bronze hues shimmering in the candlelight. The tidy chignon remained undisturbed by the hours of travel and her bonnet.
She summoned a brave smile for her charges. “Shall we go meet Lord Ronan’s family?”
“Sweet Jesus,” Corrina exclaimed.
As one, they turned toward her.
That was one bet Ronan would’ve won had he placed a wager.
Her gaze trained on Mercy, his sister gaped. Pointing rudely, she blinked several times as if she couldn't believe what she was seeing. “She’s the spitting image of Adelhied Tyndal.”
Who in blazes is Adelhied Tyndal?
“Who?” Ronan screwed his face into a frown while sending Mercy a puzzled sidelong glance. He racked his memory, trying to recall the woman.
“Lady Amhurst?” Corinna coaxed. “You’ve attended several of the same social functions over the years.”
A haunted glint entering her tumultuous fern-green eyes, Mercy had gone waxen. She drew the girls nearer and dropped her gaze to the glossy flower-patterned parquet floor.
His sister narrowed her eyes in exasperation as if he were an imbecile for not knowing who Lady Amhurst was. “Really, Ronan. Lady Amhurst is the Duke of—”
“That is quite enough, Corinna,” Mother said, a thread of steel in her tempered tone. Their mother’s curt admonishment brooked no argument. What was more, it was a rare thing indeed for her to raise her voice.
The gaze she turned on Ronan warned him to hold his tongue as well.
