blaze crackled and roared, did not immediately see them.
His Grace of Portsmouth, a massive figure with a wild mane of startlingly white hair and a heavy face that despite the lines of age still bore the unmistakable Caverlock features, seated in a large wing chair to one side of the hearth, did.
As did the two boys, slumped like tired puppies on the rug before the fire; they’d been poring over a large book, turning the heavy pages, but had looked up at the butler’s words.
Their faces were so alike—nearly identical; their coloring was stunningly similar.
One face remained merely curious, wide, dark eyes fixed on them.
The other face—Benjy’s face—lit with a smile.
“Miss Ashford!”
He scrambled to his feet as the butler swung around with an audible gasp. The butler took a step toward them, raising his arms as if to shoo them back, but Benjy held out a hand. “No, Cooper. They’re my friends .”
Benjy stepped forward, his delight dissolving into uncertainty, his gaze fixing on Anne’s face. “I know it wasn’t right to go off like that.” He glanced sideways at Portsmouth. “I did say as you’d be worried, but you see he’s my granddad, and he said as I should come and live here with Neville, and learn to be a Caverlock. That’s my surname, he says. He did say we’d send a message…”
He stopped, clearly fighting the urge to look to his newfound grandsire for assistance; he swallowed and fixed Anne with a beseeching look. “Is that all right then? Can I come here and live with my grandfather?”
Anne had kept her face blank, unwilling to react until she knew and understood. Now she relaxed, and beamed, smiling so hard it hurt. “Of course, you can, Benjy— of course .”
Three
“ N ot every day a man discovers a grandson he didn’t know he had.” Portsmouth lowered himself into one of the armchairs in the drawing room to which, at his direction, they’d all retired once the furor attendant upon first Imogen and Hugh, then Thomas, all arriving in a lather, had died down.
Sizing up matters in a glance, His Grace had decreed that Benjy and Neville, Hugh and Imogen’s son, should retire to the schoolroom and tidy themselves before joining their elders for dinner—a special dispensation they were keen not to jeopardize, ensuring their eager obedience.
“No need for them to hear it all—we can tell Benjy what he should know when the time comes.”
With that, His Grace had led them all here; he waited until they’d all sat—Imogen and Anne on the sofa, Reggie beside Anne, Hugh and Thomas on chairs they drew up—before letting his gaze come to rest on Anne.
“I must thank you, my dear, for having the backbone to bring this matter to the family’s attention. Many would have quailed at the thought and found reasons enough to let such a most likely unwelcome piece of news fade from their minds. We are indebted to you.” Gravely, he inclined his head.
Anne blushed. “We strive to do the best we can for the children in our care.”
Portsmouth inclined his head again in acknowledgment; his gaze shifted to Imogen. A lilting smile touched his lips. “And you, my dear. I’m obliged that you credited me with enough sense to be able to deal with the news without any roundaboutation.” His gaze flicked to his sons, but his expression remained benign. “God knows how long it would have taken Hugh to find the right words.”
Hugh blushed, but shook his head. “All very well, but I’m still confused.”
“And me,” Thomas echoed.
When the duke’s gaze swung to Reggie, he assumed his blandest expression. “I take it Benjy really is your grandson?”
Portsmouth smiled, a trifle sadly. “Indeed, he is.”
“But”—Hugh’s brow was creased in perplexity—“who is his father?”
Portsmouth grimaced. “As to that, I can’t say. Never did know, which was half the problem.” He waited for his sons’ expressions to clear; when they didn’t, he snorted. “For heaven’s
His Grace of Portsmouth, a massive figure with a wild mane of startlingly white hair and a heavy face that despite the lines of age still bore the unmistakable Caverlock features, seated in a large wing chair to one side of the hearth, did.
As did the two boys, slumped like tired puppies on the rug before the fire; they’d been poring over a large book, turning the heavy pages, but had looked up at the butler’s words.
Their faces were so alike—nearly identical; their coloring was stunningly similar.
One face remained merely curious, wide, dark eyes fixed on them.
The other face—Benjy’s face—lit with a smile.
“Miss Ashford!”
He scrambled to his feet as the butler swung around with an audible gasp. The butler took a step toward them, raising his arms as if to shoo them back, but Benjy held out a hand. “No, Cooper. They’re my friends .”
Benjy stepped forward, his delight dissolving into uncertainty, his gaze fixing on Anne’s face. “I know it wasn’t right to go off like that.” He glanced sideways at Portsmouth. “I did say as you’d be worried, but you see he’s my granddad, and he said as I should come and live here with Neville, and learn to be a Caverlock. That’s my surname, he says. He did say we’d send a message…”
He stopped, clearly fighting the urge to look to his newfound grandsire for assistance; he swallowed and fixed Anne with a beseeching look. “Is that all right then? Can I come here and live with my grandfather?”
Anne had kept her face blank, unwilling to react until she knew and understood. Now she relaxed, and beamed, smiling so hard it hurt. “Of course, you can, Benjy— of course .”
Three
“ N ot every day a man discovers a grandson he didn’t know he had.” Portsmouth lowered himself into one of the armchairs in the drawing room to which, at his direction, they’d all retired once the furor attendant upon first Imogen and Hugh, then Thomas, all arriving in a lather, had died down.
Sizing up matters in a glance, His Grace had decreed that Benjy and Neville, Hugh and Imogen’s son, should retire to the schoolroom and tidy themselves before joining their elders for dinner—a special dispensation they were keen not to jeopardize, ensuring their eager obedience.
“No need for them to hear it all—we can tell Benjy what he should know when the time comes.”
With that, His Grace had led them all here; he waited until they’d all sat—Imogen and Anne on the sofa, Reggie beside Anne, Hugh and Thomas on chairs they drew up—before letting his gaze come to rest on Anne.
“I must thank you, my dear, for having the backbone to bring this matter to the family’s attention. Many would have quailed at the thought and found reasons enough to let such a most likely unwelcome piece of news fade from their minds. We are indebted to you.” Gravely, he inclined his head.
Anne blushed. “We strive to do the best we can for the children in our care.”
Portsmouth inclined his head again in acknowledgment; his gaze shifted to Imogen. A lilting smile touched his lips. “And you, my dear. I’m obliged that you credited me with enough sense to be able to deal with the news without any roundaboutation.” His gaze flicked to his sons, but his expression remained benign. “God knows how long it would have taken Hugh to find the right words.”
Hugh blushed, but shook his head. “All very well, but I’m still confused.”
“And me,” Thomas echoed.
When the duke’s gaze swung to Reggie, he assumed his blandest expression. “I take it Benjy really is your grandson?”
Portsmouth smiled, a trifle sadly. “Indeed, he is.”
“But”—Hugh’s brow was creased in perplexity—“who is his father?”
Portsmouth grimaced. “As to that, I can’t say. Never did know, which was half the problem.” He waited for his sons’ expressions to clear; when they didn’t, he snorted. “For heaven’s
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