your uncle. What is it about him that your cousin considers...”
“Rackety?”
Faint worry lines appeared between the marquess’s brows. “Yes. I’ve no right to ask, I acknowledge, but I feel compelled to nonetheless. Is your uncle a gambler, a drinker, a womanizer...?”
“A bit of all those things, I’m afraid. But you needn’t fret for my sake. If I do go to live with him, I’m sure we’ll deal quite well together.”
“If...?”
“You didn’t overhear that part of my conversation with Mrs. Howard, then? I’m hoping she’ll agree to take me on as her companion.”
“Do you mean to say you consider working for her preferable to living with your uncle?”
The question might have been a mere gibe at Mrs. Howard, not very different from the one Charlie had made, if not for the concern written plainly on his face. So Lord Deal was a worrier. The discovery surprised her. Why did he pretend to be the cool, aloof figure everyone supposed him? A good deal more went on beneath his reserved exterior than met the eye.
“I think I could be useful to Mrs. Howard,” Rosalie said. “And I’d like to remain in one spot for a time.”
“Modest enough goals, I should think.”
“They seem quite ambitious to me, after nine years of travel. And my aunt and uncle lead a somewhat unsettled life.” Rosalie stole a glance at the marquess. She could have happily spent hours marveling at the perfection of his jaw—the strong, square lines, firm and sharply chiseled. When had he last had his portrait painted? Recently, she hoped, and by a skilled artist, one capable of capturing both his dark good looks and the compassion that lurked beneath his austere manner. “May I ask you a personal question of my own?”
“Turnabout is fair play, or so I’ve been told.”
“Why do you avoid society? At first I supposed you simply didn’t care for the company on board, but I’m told you have a reputation for keeping to yourself even in England. Do you really prefer to be alone?”
He looked away but managed a credibly offhand shrug. “I’ve found that the fewer people one has in one’s life, the fewer problems and worries one encounters.”
“I suppose that’s true, but it also means one has fewer friends and fewer happy memories to share. That seems a rather unrewarding way to go through life.”
He gazed out over the water. “I’m sure there are worse fates.”
“Yes, of course.” Rosalie knew she ought to let the matter drop, especially when the stiffness was creeping back into his posture, but the urge to learn more about him won out. “Then again, you’re a gentleman of title and property, with a duty to your family name. Have you never thought of marrying?”
He flashed her a look of surprise.
“Oh!” She clapped a hand to her mouth. “I’m sorry. That—that came out sounding dreadfully coquettish! I wasn’t angling to fill the position, truly.”
He broke into an unexpected chuckle. “You may relax, Miss Whitwell. I doubt you’d point out the coquettishness of the question if you were really that calculating.”
Her cheeks burned. “Not unless I were so utterly Machiavellian I hoped to disarm you by calling attention to my wiles—which, I assure you, I’m not.”
His chuckle faded to look of admiration. “No, you strike me as one of the least Machiavellian ladies I’ve ever met.”
Even as he said the words, she realized he was giving her more credit than she deserved. A part of her was interested in Lord Deal, and in a more than merely friendly way. She’d never before found any man so powerfully attractive—or so mysterious. He could be remarkably kind one moment, and distant the next.
Her cheeks still hot, she looked down. “I expressed it clumsily, but I did hope to make a point. I can think of only two types who prefer solitude, the coldly misanthropic and the painfully awkward, and you strike me as neither—or, at least, there’s nothing at all awkward about you once
“Rackety?”
Faint worry lines appeared between the marquess’s brows. “Yes. I’ve no right to ask, I acknowledge, but I feel compelled to nonetheless. Is your uncle a gambler, a drinker, a womanizer...?”
“A bit of all those things, I’m afraid. But you needn’t fret for my sake. If I do go to live with him, I’m sure we’ll deal quite well together.”
“If...?”
“You didn’t overhear that part of my conversation with Mrs. Howard, then? I’m hoping she’ll agree to take me on as her companion.”
“Do you mean to say you consider working for her preferable to living with your uncle?”
The question might have been a mere gibe at Mrs. Howard, not very different from the one Charlie had made, if not for the concern written plainly on his face. So Lord Deal was a worrier. The discovery surprised her. Why did he pretend to be the cool, aloof figure everyone supposed him? A good deal more went on beneath his reserved exterior than met the eye.
“I think I could be useful to Mrs. Howard,” Rosalie said. “And I’d like to remain in one spot for a time.”
“Modest enough goals, I should think.”
“They seem quite ambitious to me, after nine years of travel. And my aunt and uncle lead a somewhat unsettled life.” Rosalie stole a glance at the marquess. She could have happily spent hours marveling at the perfection of his jaw—the strong, square lines, firm and sharply chiseled. When had he last had his portrait painted? Recently, she hoped, and by a skilled artist, one capable of capturing both his dark good looks and the compassion that lurked beneath his austere manner. “May I ask you a personal question of my own?”
“Turnabout is fair play, or so I’ve been told.”
“Why do you avoid society? At first I supposed you simply didn’t care for the company on board, but I’m told you have a reputation for keeping to yourself even in England. Do you really prefer to be alone?”
He looked away but managed a credibly offhand shrug. “I’ve found that the fewer people one has in one’s life, the fewer problems and worries one encounters.”
“I suppose that’s true, but it also means one has fewer friends and fewer happy memories to share. That seems a rather unrewarding way to go through life.”
He gazed out over the water. “I’m sure there are worse fates.”
“Yes, of course.” Rosalie knew she ought to let the matter drop, especially when the stiffness was creeping back into his posture, but the urge to learn more about him won out. “Then again, you’re a gentleman of title and property, with a duty to your family name. Have you never thought of marrying?”
He flashed her a look of surprise.
“Oh!” She clapped a hand to her mouth. “I’m sorry. That—that came out sounding dreadfully coquettish! I wasn’t angling to fill the position, truly.”
He broke into an unexpected chuckle. “You may relax, Miss Whitwell. I doubt you’d point out the coquettishness of the question if you were really that calculating.”
Her cheeks burned. “Not unless I were so utterly Machiavellian I hoped to disarm you by calling attention to my wiles—which, I assure you, I’m not.”
His chuckle faded to look of admiration. “No, you strike me as one of the least Machiavellian ladies I’ve ever met.”
Even as he said the words, she realized he was giving her more credit than she deserved. A part of her was interested in Lord Deal, and in a more than merely friendly way. She’d never before found any man so powerfully attractive—or so mysterious. He could be remarkably kind one moment, and distant the next.
Her cheeks still hot, she looked down. “I expressed it clumsily, but I did hope to make a point. I can think of only two types who prefer solitude, the coldly misanthropic and the painfully awkward, and you strike me as neither—or, at least, there’s nothing at all awkward about you once
Similar Books
