and bury his face in the side of her throat. He had to work to stifle the urge to loosen the bonnet and free the rest of it to let it stream in the wind.
He wished he was in a position to make conversation with her, for it might have helped to pass the time and occupy his mind in anything other than the scent of her hair.
‘Who are you?’ The words came from her suddenly, with no preamble. And then she stopped herself, probably shocked at sounding ridiculous, nonsensical and, worst of all, rude.
But she was unaware of what a blessed relief it was to him.
‘I am John Hendricks, as I have already told you. I worked for the Earl of Folbroke as a personal secretary.’
She relaxed a little as though she’d been bracing for some sort of harsh retort. It made him wonder at the sort of conversation she was accustomed to, if a simple question was not met with a polite answer.
‘But I think that is not what you are asking me,’ he said. ‘I would be happy to answer you in detail, if you would clarify your meaning.’
‘How did you come to be who you are? Who are your people? Where did you come from?’ And again he felt her tense, as though she were expecting ridicule. It made him want to reach out and offer physical comfort of some kind—a touch on the shoulder, a word in her ear urging her to relax in his company. Or, worse yet, to ask similar questions of her. He must remember that conversation between them, given his position and hers, was a one-sided affair at best. A desire to know his personal history did not demonstrate a desire to share hers.
He answered carefully, giving just the information required. ‘I was born in London, though I spent very little time there. My mother died when I was quite young; there is not much I can tell you of her, other than that she was beautiful. But that is what all children say of their mothers and so it hardly signifies.’
And that had been enough to loosen her tongue and relax her rigid posture. ‘I suppose you are right, Mr Hendricks. I would say the same of my departed mother. Beautiful and happy.’
‘Mine was sad.’ He reflected for a moment, surprised that her questions had raised a fresh feeling of loss for something that had happened so long ago. ‘I was sent away to school when she died. To Eton and then to Cambridge. There was never any question of how it would be paid for. But around the time of the death of Duke of Summersly, I received a nice settlement. I think that tells us both all we need to know about the identity of my father.’
‘A bastard son of a duke?’ Again she had blurted the words in a way that was the height of bad manners. He could almost hear her mouth snap shut.
‘Of him, or some member of that family. While he did not acknowledge me in life, I cannot really complain about the way I was treated.’ At least, he had no right to. ‘I was a natural student and quite happy at all the schools I attended. I cannot say the same of my fellows. I took great pleasure in besting them when I could, at lessons or at games. It proved…’ and then he remembered his audience and shut his own mouth.
‘That it is not always one’s parentage that proves one’s abilities,’ she finished for him, unbothered by the idea. Of course, she had no reason to feel threatened by it. She was a symbol of the rank he’d been denied; nothing he could say would change her status in society. ‘And when you were finished with your education?’ she prompted.
‘I used the money I was given to buy a commission and did quite handsomely for myself as a soldier. I was aide-de-camp to the Earl of Folbroke. We were friends as well as comrades. When he returned home, I followed and took a position in his household.’
‘And you might have been equals…’
‘Or perhaps his superior,’ he added calmly, ‘had I been born on the right side of the blanket.’ He waited for her chilly response and the inevitable withdrawal. Their circumstances were unusual and
He wished he was in a position to make conversation with her, for it might have helped to pass the time and occupy his mind in anything other than the scent of her hair.
‘Who are you?’ The words came from her suddenly, with no preamble. And then she stopped herself, probably shocked at sounding ridiculous, nonsensical and, worst of all, rude.
But she was unaware of what a blessed relief it was to him.
‘I am John Hendricks, as I have already told you. I worked for the Earl of Folbroke as a personal secretary.’
She relaxed a little as though she’d been bracing for some sort of harsh retort. It made him wonder at the sort of conversation she was accustomed to, if a simple question was not met with a polite answer.
‘But I think that is not what you are asking me,’ he said. ‘I would be happy to answer you in detail, if you would clarify your meaning.’
‘How did you come to be who you are? Who are your people? Where did you come from?’ And again he felt her tense, as though she were expecting ridicule. It made him want to reach out and offer physical comfort of some kind—a touch on the shoulder, a word in her ear urging her to relax in his company. Or, worse yet, to ask similar questions of her. He must remember that conversation between them, given his position and hers, was a one-sided affair at best. A desire to know his personal history did not demonstrate a desire to share hers.
He answered carefully, giving just the information required. ‘I was born in London, though I spent very little time there. My mother died when I was quite young; there is not much I can tell you of her, other than that she was beautiful. But that is what all children say of their mothers and so it hardly signifies.’
And that had been enough to loosen her tongue and relax her rigid posture. ‘I suppose you are right, Mr Hendricks. I would say the same of my departed mother. Beautiful and happy.’
‘Mine was sad.’ He reflected for a moment, surprised that her questions had raised a fresh feeling of loss for something that had happened so long ago. ‘I was sent away to school when she died. To Eton and then to Cambridge. There was never any question of how it would be paid for. But around the time of the death of Duke of Summersly, I received a nice settlement. I think that tells us both all we need to know about the identity of my father.’
‘A bastard son of a duke?’ Again she had blurted the words in a way that was the height of bad manners. He could almost hear her mouth snap shut.
‘Of him, or some member of that family. While he did not acknowledge me in life, I cannot really complain about the way I was treated.’ At least, he had no right to. ‘I was a natural student and quite happy at all the schools I attended. I cannot say the same of my fellows. I took great pleasure in besting them when I could, at lessons or at games. It proved…’ and then he remembered his audience and shut his own mouth.
‘That it is not always one’s parentage that proves one’s abilities,’ she finished for him, unbothered by the idea. Of course, she had no reason to feel threatened by it. She was a symbol of the rank he’d been denied; nothing he could say would change her status in society. ‘And when you were finished with your education?’ she prompted.
‘I used the money I was given to buy a commission and did quite handsomely for myself as a soldier. I was aide-de-camp to the Earl of Folbroke. We were friends as well as comrades. When he returned home, I followed and took a position in his household.’
‘And you might have been equals…’
‘Or perhaps his superior,’ he added calmly, ‘had I been born on the right side of the blanket.’ He waited for her chilly response and the inevitable withdrawal. Their circumstances were unusual and
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