“You sold your commission?” Lord Collins asked, without acknowledging his daughter’s loss.
“Yes. I’m home for good.” Home. And he’d never felt so useless, for the entire estate ran smoothly without him. He’d wanted a steward to make that happen all those years ago when he’d left—and the man had succeeded. But now … Robert was at loose ends, as if he were unnecessary. And since it was autumn, even Parliament was not in session for him to take his place in the House of Lords.
He was used to being in charge and living an exciting, dangerous life. Oh, he’d been invited to country house parties and shooting parties from the moment of his return, but he’d only been able to focus on meeting Mrs. Blake. He snuck a glanceat her, as if she’d even notice. Though her eyes appeared normal, they were strangely blank, and she wasn’t quite looking at him. They were an unusual color, a light amber that seemed to shine from within dark lashes. One wanted to focus on their beauty, which only made it even more apparent that they were so very different ineveryway.
“Thank you for your kind condolences, my lord,” she said with quiet dignity. “You were in the same regiment as my husband?”
“He joined us because so many from our parish were in the Eighth Dragoon Guards.”
“Cavalrymen,” Lord Collins said approvingly.
Robert nodded, then added, “Yes,” because Mrs. Blake couldn’t see his response.
A maid pushed a teacart through the open door, and Mrs. Blake rose. Robert watched, astonished, as she poured the cup herself, noticing that she left one finger just inside the rim. She didn’t need to actually touch the tea, since she must have felt the rising heat.
“How do you take your tea, Lord Knightsbridge?” she asked.
“Black is fine,” he said.
She held the cup and saucer toward him, and he took it. She poured more for herself and her father, adding milk and sugar in the appropriate amounts. Her father took his almost without looking at her. She placed a little plate of iced cakes on the table, then sat down with her own tea.
Robert had thought such a woman would be an invalid, but he’d heard her play the piano, watched her move gracefully about the room and serve refreshments like any competent hostess. He admired her, yet he felt pity that she could never live a normal life.
“This may be an awkward question, my lord,” she began slowly, “but were you with my husband at the end?”
Memories swamped him of the dark jungle night, and the swarm of unexpected attackers. “Yes, ma’am, I was.”
“Did he … suffer?”
“I do not believe so. The head wound was swiftly mortal.” Blake had died in his arms, and Robert had found the last letter from his wife that Blake hadn’t even had time to read. Robert had kept that letter for the next two years, reading several times the innocent, cheerful details of home and hearth.
She stared down into her tea—no, she didn’t stare, he amended to himself. But her head was bent, and he wondered at her emotions, though he could guess: grief and perhaps despair.
“I am glad he did not suffer,” she said at last.
Her father glanced at her almost impatiently. “Such sorrow is in the past,” he intoned. “No need to dwell, now that we are out of mourning.”
Mrs. Blake’s mouth tightened briefly, and Robert guessed she and her father had not reacted the same way to Blake’s death.
Lord Collins glanced out the window at the faint sound of harness jingling and the clop of horse hooves on the drive. A curricle, driven by a groom with a lady at his side, moved past the house and took the corner. “Ah, there is my youngest daughter,” he said with satisfaction. “She will be so pleased to meet you, Knightsbridge. I will hurry her along.” He rose and waddled from the room.
Mrs. Blake took another sip of her tea before giving Robert a fixed smile. “My sister came out several years ago, my lord.”
“And it must not be as successful as your father wished, considering the speed with which he departed.”
Her expression lightened, and her smile, though faint, eased his tongue.
“While we have a moment alone, Mrs. Blake, I would like you to know that, as your husband’s friend, I wish to be of service toyou in some way. He saved my life once, and I was not able to save his. I owe a debt in his memory, and it would ease me to assist you.”
He expected her to downplay such an offer. After all, she was a blind widow who had a comfortable life with her family.
She slowly set down her cup, and for the first time he felt the intense focus of her interest, even though she was not looking directly at him. But those eyes were mesmerizing, and the line of her body grew slowly tense.
In a lower voice, she said, “Do you mean that, my lord? I could ask a boon of you?”
He set down his own cup and leaned toward her. “If I can grant it, I will.”
“I am trapped here,” she said, her voice impassive even though her words were startling. “I inherited my husband’s manor, but my father refuses to allow me to live there, though I am twenty-five years of age and have managed this household for many years. No one will go against him. But you can, my lord. Will you help me?”
