The Lady Confesses by Carole Mortimer

after his demise the consideration that it deserved.
    His death had been unexpected, so perhaps their father had believed Diana, Caroline and Elizabeth would all be safely married before that occurred. Although how that should have come about, when none of them were ever allowed to meet eligible gentlemen, Elizabeth was unsure.
    Whatever his reasoning, the reading of Marcus Copeland’s will had revealed that he had made no provision for dowries for his three daughters, that lack of foresight instead leaving them to the guardianship and mercy of his distant cousin and heir, Lord Gabriel Faulkner.
    Elizabeth smiled tightly. ‘Then let us hope, for your sake, that the two Miss Millers and Miss Rutledge are all possessed of a large fortune.’
    Nathaniel frowned darkly, not at all pleased with the way she had turned this conversation towards his aunt’s less-than-subtle matrimonial intentions towards himself.
    His two closest friends might have recently succumbed to the idea of marriage, Dominic intending to marry the masked beauty Caro Morton, and Gabriel, more sensibly, planning to offer for one of the three young ladies who had become his wards on his inheriting the title of Earl of Westbourne. But this didn’t make Nathaniel feel any more kindly disposed towards the parson’s mousetrap for himself. Indeed, he considered it his duty to uphold the very idea of bachelorhood for those others of his peers who had also so far managed to escape such a fate.
    Elizabeth barely restrained her smile at the look of disgust that had come over Nathaniel’s face at the mere mention of matrimony in regard to himself, revealing to her, at least, that Mrs Wilson’s hopes in that direction were likely to come to nought. ‘You really should join your aunt and her guest, my lord.’ She looked up at the earl challengingly, feeling that she had emerged the victor in that particular exchange.
    Nathaniel looked down the length of his nose at her. ‘I am used to doing as I please, not as others might wish me to do.’
    She smiled briefly. ‘One would never have guessed!’
    Brown eyes narrowed at her obvious sarcasm. ‘You—’
    ‘Your tea is becoming cold, Osbourne,’ Mrs Wilson cut in imperiously.
    Alerting Elizabeth to the fact that she was seriously in danger of incurring that lady’s wrath herself if she did not bring this conversation with her nephew to an immediate end. She did not so much as glance in the earl’s direction again before crossing the room to stand before the older woman. ‘Lord Thorne was merely advising me concerning the safest path for me to take in regard to Hector’s walk.’ She gave Sir Rufus Tennant a distracted smile as he rose politely to his feet.
    ‘Of course.’ Mrs Wilson gave her nephew an affectionate smile as he joined their group. ‘Such a dear boy, always so concerned for the well-being of others…’
    Elizabeth’s snort of disbelief escaped before she had chance to stop it, a snort she quickly turned into a cough as she saw the way her employer frowned up at her. But, really, the mere idea of Nathaniel Thorne as a ‘dear boy’ who was ‘concerned with the well-being of others’ was perfectly ludicrous; the man was arrogance personified, and the only person towards whom he showed the least consideration, besides himself, was his aunt.
    ‘I do hope you are not coming down with a cold, Betsy.’ That lady delicately raised a lace handkerchief in front of her nose.
    Elizabeth could see the irritating earl out of the corner of her eye, was completely aware of the mockery in the smile that now curved those sculptured, and oh-so-sensuous lips. ‘I do not think so,’ she assured the older woman mildly. ‘I am probably just a little allergic to something in the room,’ she added for the smirking earl’s benefit. ‘I am sure that it is nothing that a brisk walk outside in the fresh air will not cure.’
    ‘I was about to take my leave.’ Sir Rufus Tennant placed his empty tea cup on