“I will,” he said. “If she will have me, that is to say.”
“If she has any sense at all,” Lady Cecily replied as she accompanied him to the door. “Shecertainly will.”
∞∞∞
It was hours past nightfall by the time Anthony arrived at last to the estate he had been assured belonged to Baron Armitage, and already he was beyond exhausted—from the journey itself, which had been somewhat longer than he had hoped, and from the demands of the day.
First had come the chaos of struggling to pack for a trip of indeterminate length, since he could not possibly predict the length of it. For all he knew it was just as likely that he’d be turned away at the door as invited to stay. Then had come a visit to the solicitor, which had been a matter of several hours in and of itself. Which was just as well, because proper morning calls were done in the afternoon, and he’d been honor bound to explain himself to Lady Cecily, and to be fully free and unencumbered by even the possible suggestion of a potential engagement before he declared himself to Charity.
He’d finally made it clear of London by mid-afternoon, but the day—and the interminable carriage ride, in which he’d had nothing but time and silence in which to stew—had worn heavily upon him. And now he had arrived, at an inopportune hour, to call upon a woman he was not even certainwasin residence here, in the faint hope that she might be persuaded to love him.
He was disheveled, his clothes wrinkled and travel-worn. He was certain he looked every bit as exhausted as he felt. And yet he stepped down from his carriage in resolute determination, striding for the door with a renewed sense of urgency.
It was well outside of normal visiting hours, and the grand manor house was buried in the countryside. No one was expecting him. But he rapped firmly on the door and heard the sound echo within.
And he waited. And waited. Until at last there was the distant sound of someone approaching, and then the click of a key in the lock—and the door opened at last.
It wasn’t a butler who appeared there at the door. Instead, a harried-looking woman peered out at him, a whimpering baby held against her shoulder. Her dark brows pinched together; surprised, no doubt, to find a stranger upon her steps at such an hour of the night. She wasn’t beautiful in the way that Charity was, and had made few enough concessions toward even appearing presentable, besides. But there was something familiar in the arch of her brows, in the shape of her chin, in the shade of her hair. A sort of vague family resemblance.
She could only be Mercy; Charity’s half-sister.
As she rubbed the baby’s back in soft, soothing motions, she said, in avoice rife with desperation, “Pleasetell me you are the duke.”
“I—” What was he meant to say to that manner of greeting? “I suppose I must be.” Unless she had been expecting a different duke altogether? Which seemed a bit of a stretch, as there were not a lot of them about.
“Thank God.” The door opened wider, and she reached her hand through it to snag at his lapel, all but dragging him through the doorway. “What has taken you so long? I’ve never seen Charity so devastated!”
Anthony stumbled into the foyer, his heart catching in his chest. “She’s here, then?” It had hardly been a day—butshe was here. And devastated? But she would have no reason to be.
Unless she cared. At least a little. Perhaps even enough. His heart began to pound; a chaotic, hopeful rhythm beating behind his breastbone.
“Of course she is here! Where else is one meant to go in such times, if not to family?” She waved him with one hand toward what must be the drawing room, directing him to sit. “I’ll send a servant to light the lamps and bring tea while I fetch Charity down,” she said. “Here—you take Flora. I’ll not move half so quickly with her as without her.”
And she thrust the baby in his direction. Grimacing, Anthony attempted to fend off the child. “I couldn’t,” he said, though he feared she had him well and truly cornered in his position upon the sofa. “My face will upset her.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” the woman said. “Such prejudices are learned. One is not born with them. To her, your face is merely different than those she’s seen before. She’ll be fascinated.” And she settled the baby in his arms against his protests. “Bounce her a little if she fusses. We think she may be cutting her first tooth a little early.” And then she was gone.
And Anthony was left alone in the drawing room.
With ababy.
For a moment he dreaded looking down, dreaded adding to the fussy baby’s discomfort with the introduction of his face. But she flailed her little fists and began that terrible whimpering once more, only this time she hadn’t the comfort of her mother’s arms to soothe her. Only his.
As instructed, he gingerly bounced her in his arms, and when she quieted once more, he glanced down at last. Flora had stuffed her fingers into her mouth, her yet-toothless gums gnawing upon them. She gazed back up at him, enrapt, her dark eyes wide and curious.
Anthony waited for the first wail of fear, the first flicker of distress. But they did not come. She was just…fascinated. Too young to have learned fear, as her mother had said.
Probably, if his presence in her life was not a distant, merely occasional one, she never would. He could simply beUncle Anthony, and she would never have a reason to shy away from him or to flee from him.
Belatedly, he realized that Mercy had not flinched at his face, either. Charity might have told her—but still he could not have been expected to arrive at this hour. If Charity had been so devastated as Mercy had claimed, he could not have been expected at all. And even so, Mercy had exhibited none of the instinctual, visceral distaste to which he had become so accustomed.
A bit of a strange family, then, he supposed. But a kind one. One somewhat less predisposed to finding faults and flaws than he had expected.
After a few minutes, a maid crept in quietly to light the lamps and to leave behind a tea tray—which Anthony had no way to reach, given that his arms were still quite full. In the new light, Flora carefully examined his features with the sort of engrossed attention only a baby could manage. She lifted one small hand to pat his cheek, her tiny fingers exploring with intent interest the texture of his scars. Those fingers found the cloth of his eyepatch, curling into the fabric in a focused effort to pry it loose.
“Here, now,” he said, as he shifted her carefully to the cradle of one arm and watched her brows furrow in concentration. He lifted the patch from his eye, pulling it off his head. And still—not a lick of fear. And there was something gratifying in that.
From outside the room there was the sound of footsteps upon the stairs, growing closer by the moment. And Charity’s voice; sulky, chagrined: “Mercy, tell me. What is this about?”
