A Summer to Remember by Mary Balogh Page B

his heir,” he replied, “the elder of his two surviving sons. My elder brother died almost two years ago.”
    “I am sorry,” she said.
    “So am I.” He flashed her a rueful glance. “The last time I saw Jerome I broke his nose and my father banished me from Alvesley and told me never to return.”
    Gracious! Lauren was intensely embarrassed. That it might be true was shocking enough, but why would he air such very dirty linen before a stranger—and a lady, at that?
    “I have shocked you.” The viscount grinned at her.
    “I believe, my lord,” she said with sudden insight, “you fully intended to do so. I ought not to have asked about your father.”
    “Let me return the favor,” he said. “You have lived most of your life at Newbury Abbey, but you have no blood relationship to the family there. Who is—or was—your father?”
    “He was Viscount Whitleaf,” she said. “He died when I was two years old. Less than a year later my mother took me to Newbury and married the Earl of Kilbourne’s brother.”
    “Indeed?” he said. “And does your mother still live?”
    “They left on a wedding journey two days after their nuptials,” she told him, “and never returned. There were occasional letters and packages for a number of years and then . . . nothing.”
    The smile was gone from his face when he glanced at her this time. “You do not know, then,” he asked her, “whether your mother lives or has died? Or your stepfather?”
    “Certainly they are both dead,” she said, “though where or when or how I do not know.” It was something she almost never spoke of. She had locked away the hurt, the sense of abandonment, the feeling of incompletion, a long time ago.
    They were drawing closer to the press of carriages and horses and pedestrians that were making the slow circuit of the daily parade.
    Lauren determinedly changed the subject. “Do you come here often?” she asked.
    He laughed across at her. “You mean apart from the mornings,” he asked in his turn, “on or close to Rotten Row?”
    She could feel herself flush and twirled her parasol again. More and more, she was convinced that he was no gentleman. He
had
seen her, then? And was not ashamed to admit it? No gentleman . . .
    “You ride there in the mornings?” she asked.
    But he was unwilling to have the subject turned. “That kiss,” he said, “was a milkmaid’s way of thanking me for felling the three thugs who had accosted her and demanded certain favors she was unwilling to grant.”
    Was
that
what the fight had been all about? He had taken on
three
men in order to defend a milkmaid’s honor?
    “It was
ample
reward,” he said before she could frame the words with which to approve his motive even if not his actions. He was deliberately trying to shock her—again, she realized. Why? He touched his whip to the brim of his hat as two ladies rode by with their grooms, their eyes avid with curiosity.
    “A gentleman,” Lauren said with prim reproof, “would not have asked any payment at all.”
    “But how ungallant,” he said, “to refuse a reward freely offered. Could a gentleman do such a thing, Miss Edgeworth?”
    “A gentleman would not so obviously enjoy himself,” she said and then glared at him indignantly when he threw back his head and laughed—just when they were close enough to a vast crowd of their peers to draw attention. She twirled her parasol smartly, but there was no chance of further conversation on the topic. Why had she allowed herself to be drawn anyway?
    The following fifteen minutes were spent driving at a snail’s pace around the circuit taken by other carriages and riders, smiling and nodding, stopping every few yards to converse with acquaintances. Wilma and Lord Sutton were there, of course, as was Joseph. There were a few other people Lauren knew, Elizabeth’s friends whom she had met during the past three weeks, and others to whom she had been presented at the ball last evening. And there