0800720903 (R) by Ruth Axtell

chin, as if considering.
    “I should think there would have been some clues along the way if you were really not your parents’ offspring.”
    “My parents are quite closemouthed about many things, especially anything that hints of scandal. No,” he said, a speculative look in his eyes, “if there were clues, I didn’t find them. Perhaps I was left on the doorstep by a maid who didn’t want to give her baby up to the orphanage, hearing the horrors of that place. And she didn’t want to lose her job—”
    “She would hardly be able to keep her condition secret in your household all those months.” As she realized the indecorous topic she was discussing with a young gentleman she scarcely knew, sheclamped her lips together and turned away from him. “This is an unseemly subject.”
    “You brought it up with your suspicions.”
    “I?” She flashed him a look of outrage only to find his eyes filled with amusement. “You were making all that up.”
    He tugged on an earlobe, looking sheepish. “I confess, no matter how uncertain my heritage, I’m afraid the proof of it is undeniable. A portrait of my grandfather hangs in the family gallery. I resemble him to a great degree, including my coloring. Thus, despite the more romantic appeal of being a foundling, I am only the ugly younger son of Sir Geoffrey Marfleet.”
    “Younger and ruder,” she muttered, looking away again.
    “You do seem to bring out the worst in me.”
    “Then I would suggest you stay away from me. I do not like to be thought of as detrimental to a person’s conduct,” she ended stiffly. She wished she were better at parrying and thrusting his mockery.
    “You are not detrimental. It is I who am at fault. Being away from civilized London society seems to have turned me into a person who cannot keep a proper rein on his tongue. I do beg your pardon once again.”
    When she said nothing, he added quietly, “My time in India has also made me more keenly aware of the ridiculous. I don’t say this to boast. I am merely stating a tendency I don’t seem able to control since returning to England. India has made me see things from a different perspective. Manners and behavior I took for granted as the way they are supposed to be appear absurd to me now.”
    As he spoke, her irritation diminished, replaced by a grudging fascination for what he said.
    “I have lost the ability to behave as I should around young ladies—if ever I had the ability, which my brother is quick to point out I did not.”
    She lifted her chin. “You don’t treat Miss Phillips with ridicule.”
    His reddish eyebrows drew together. “Ridicule? It was not meantso, believe me. It was just . . . just that the situation appeared ridiculous and my tongue ran away with me, taking the matter to its conclusion.”
    Jessamine pressed her lips, resolving to say no more to him. His explanation might satisfy—and even move her—but she was not disposed to render herself up to his ridicule another time. She had no interest in garnering the admiration of a vicar. She was grateful for the dinner invitation he had procured for them, but that was all.
    “I see I have offended you,” he said gravely when she maintained her silence.
    Before she could think of a suitably indifferent reply, Megan exited the shop, her face alight. “I haven’t kept you two waiting too long, have I?” She turned to Jessamine without waiting for a reply. “I found the shade of primrose Lady Bess desired. It matches the sample she gave me perfectly.”
    “I’m glad.”
    “Shall we continue on our way?” she asked Mr. Marfleet.
    “If you are ready,” he answered courteously.
    Jessamine searched for the slightest hint of mockery in his look or tone, but his demeanor looked as polite as his words sounded.
    She gave a pointed look as if to say, See? You save your mockery for me.
    He only lifted a brow in bland inquiry.
    They resumed walking, Jessamine positioning herself on the far side of Megan,