Jo Beverley - [Malloren] by Devilish

father’s arms, had decided to scream in red-faced sympathy. As Lord Bryght hastily dumped his son on one maid, and another scooped up the wriggling tantrum and hurried away, Diana resisted the urge to clap her hands over her ears.
    The maids had disappeared with remarkable speed. Anxious and perhaps embarrassed parents hastened after. Echoes died and peace returned. With wry looks, the Walgraves headed up the stairs.
    True to his prediction, only the marquess and she remained.
    Diana turned to say something light before escaping, but paused when she saw his expression. “Are you all right, my lord?”
    The look of strain vanished, though he still seemed pale. “A slight headache, that is all,” he said, adding with a rueful smile, “The acoustics of this hall, however, are astonishing.”
    Diana found herself returning that smile, a smile which conveyed the notion that they were the only sane people in an insane world.
    Oh, but this was dangerous. She hastily made her escape, heading for the estate office, where no guest could pursue.
    It didn’t seem to help. That smile had seemed to spin a dangerous, silken thread between them, a thread that did not break even when she was safe, the door closed firmly behind her.

Chapter 5
    T hey sat fourteen at table that night—the Malloren adults, Rosa, Diana, her mother, and some members of the household—and the marquess was where Diana had planned for him to be—at the opposite end of the table, at her mother’s right hand.
    All the same, that silken thread still held.
    She reminded herself not to even look at him, and concentrated on the men to either side of her—Lord Steen, and Lord Brand.
    The Mallorens were good company, and seemed to be on friendly terms with each other. Their spouses could hold their own. Conversation was often lively, and bounced across the table and even up and down it, rather than politely to neighbors only.
    The marquess was perhaps the quietest, though his occasional comments were witty. Diana, despite her intentions, found herself stealing glances at him even as she maintained her share of the light chatter around her.
    He was part of this family and yet not completely part. As the night wore on, she had the strange thought that he was more like a father than a brother to them, though he could not be many years older than Lord Bryght.
    She knew that the marquess’s mother had died when he was a child—the infamous mad one who’d murdered her newborn baby. And that his father had married again. She hadn’t known until Rosa told her before dinner, that father and stepmother had died within days of each other of sickness whenthe marquess was only nineteen. Or that the marquess held himself responsible for bringing the fever back to his home.
    Rosa said Brand believed his brother had some memory of the murder of his baby sister, for he’d been there at the time, and carried guilt over that, too. Even without that, nineteen was a difficult age to assume such huge responsibilities. Her own father had died suddenly when she was twenty-two, which had seemed young enough, and she’d had neither guilt nor siblings to worry about.
    Loving family and friends had tried to relieve Lord Rothgar of responsibility for the five youngsters. He’d stood firm, however, and kept them all under one roof. That was doubtless when he’d taken on the role of father. How else to manage?
    No wonder there was a challenging edge to Lord Bryght’s comments now and then. He must have been about sixteen—just the right age to be difficult in his grief.
    No wonder Lord Rothgar had been so protective of Lord Brand last year. She contemplated her sliver of artichoke pie, appetite fading. She and Rosa had drugged Lord Brand and abandoned him in a barn, even though they’d known he’d be violently ill afterward. It had mostly been her fault, too, for Rosa would have stayed to help him if she’d not been unwell herself from sharing the drugged drink.
    Lord Brand had