“It’s true that my mother was French—and the legitimate daughter of the Comte and Comtesse de Chantonney. And that she escaped the guillotine when the rest of her family were executed. She was eleven when she came to London, all on her own, and scraped a living as best she could, drawing pictures in chalk on the pavement. My father was an English baronet, Sir Bartleby Studley. He seduced her. She thought she was safe with my father because he was a titled gentleman. She wasn’t. When she fell with child—me—he abandoned her.”
“I see.”
“When she died, some years later, I was taken to an orphanage. I was sixteen when Clarissa and her maid, Betty, came to the orphanage to hire a maidservant. They found me. Only they decided I wasn’t to be a maid but a lady. But I’m not, not really.”
“You’re a lady to your fingertips,” he said softly.
The soft sincerity of his voice brought tears to her eyes. She blinked them away. “Oh, stop it. I’m not. You know I’m not.” She thought of the way she’d dealt with Etienne. No lady would even know to threaten what she had, let alone to be willing to do it. And no lady would ever kick a gentleman in public, on the dance floor, as she had.
“I don’t know anything of the sort,” he said. “And although I’m deeply honored that you’ve shared your story with me, I still don’t see why you can’t marry me.”
She made a frustrated gesture. “Have you not heard a word I said?”
“I told you before, I remember everything you’ve ever said to me.” He smiled. “I was even planning to marry you when I thought you were an illiterate French maidservant, unjustly dismissed from her post.”
Shocked, she stared at him. “You weren’t.”
“I was. Though I was a little worried that you’d find the change to living in England and having a maid of your own difficult. But you won’t, will you?”
“I have a maid,” she said irrelevantly, her mind still spinning from what he’d just told her. “Marie. She was unjustly dismissed in the way I told you. They were her clothes I was wearing when I met you. She’s here with me now, learning English and trying to adjust.”
“Good. I’m glad she has a happy ending. Now, what about mine?”
She gazed at him, trying to think of what to say. He’d turned her world upside down with just a few words.
“What about your grandmother? We battled the whole time I was painting her.”
He shrugged. “Grandmama enjoys a good battle. It keeps her young. But I don’t care what she thinks. I go my own way, remember? In any case, she’s desperate for me to marry and get myself an heir. So what about my answer? Will you marry me?”
“Tea.” The door swung open, and Hobbs, the butler, stood with a footman bearing a tray with a pot of tea, cups, saucers and a plate of cakes.
“Tea?” He rolled his eyes, then gave a rueful chuckle. “It was how we met, after all. But honestly, those sisters of yours have the worst timing.”
It was the best timing, Zoë thought, relieved at the interruption. Clarissa followed the tea tray in. “Have you had a nice chat?” she asked brightly, with a meaningful look at Zoë.
“We were until we were interrupted,” Lord Foxton said bluntly. “I just asked your sister to marry me. She seems to think it impossible.”
“Sister? But I thought…”
“He knows everything,” Zoë told her miserably.
“Really?” Clarissa lowered herself awkwardly onto the sofa. “That’s wonderful. Tea, Lord Foxton?”
Zoë stared at her. Did Clarissa not understand? She’d become a little vague since her pregnancy. And why wasshe beaming at Lord Foxton like that? He was smiling back at her, as smug as the cat that had swallowed the cream. She couldn’t bear it. “I—I have to go,” Zoë muttered, and ran from the room.
Julian rose to go after her, but Lady Randall waved him back to his seat. “No, no, let her go. She’s a little mixed-up at the moment. Now, tell me what the problem is. And do you take milk or sugar?”
“Just one lump of sugar, thank you,” he said, bemused by her composure.
“Will you have a slice of seed cake?”
“Thank you.”
She cut a slice and passed it to him on a little plate and cut herself a slice. She must have noticed him eyeing her bulk, for she patted it, saying, “Only a few weeks to go. I can’t wait.”
She sipped her tea, broke off a piece of cake and chewed it thoughtfully. “She’s a dear, sweet girl, Zoë, and very protective of those she loves. Meaning me and my sister Izzy, in particular. I gather she told you that we are sisters through our disreputable father.”
He nodded.
