“I didn’t find much of your father,” she said honestly. “I located a man who’d sailed with him, and he told me your father had married in the West Indies. He remembered a son who had sailed with Captain Sidney as a boy before going to live with family in England. So I looked for his siblings and found Heloise, who married a man named Josiah Dashwood. One of her former servants said Mrs. Dashwood had taken in her nephew, a boy called Nicholas.” She stopped, remembering what else the servant had said about Nicholas Dashwood: that even as a boy he’d been impervious to all his aunt’s gentle teachings. She ought to have given that more attention.
His shoulders tensed. “There must be someone else.”
“No one nearer than you.”
Now he looked up, expression hard. “So thereissomeone who might lodge a competing claim?”
“That’s not the point,” she said in frustration. “It’s not a lottery where anyone who purchases a ticket could be chosen. There are strict rules dictating the matter!”
“That’s not what I asked.” He was out of his chair, looming over her, his voice ominously low. “I have some idea what would be required to pursue this. I also know that my appearance as heir will not be welcomed by many people in London, if any. They will try, mightily, to reject it. Don’t pretend otherwise,” he added as Emilia drew breath to respond. “You of all people should know how coldly they can shut out someone who doesn’t fit their mold.”
Her mouth fell open. He knew abouther—her family, her history. How? “Have you got some terrible secret in your past?”
“I have no stomach for a public brawl over this title,” he said, ignoring her question. “I’ve already told you, I don’t even want it. Is there any other possible heir?”
“No!” she exclaimed, jumping to her feet. “Ilooked. Assiduously!”
His eyes narrowed. He leaned toward her, his chest rising as if he would speak. Emilia stood straighter and folded her arms, meeting his gaze defiantly. They were almost nose to nose. She could smell his soap and see the flecks of dark brown in his eyes.
And the way his mouth eased from a hard line to a more sensuous one.
And the way his throat worked.
Emilia blinked rapidly, trying to keep her eyes fixed on some uninteresting part of him. Her gaze skipped over broad shoulders, strong hands, crisp dark hair, square jaw... She closed her eyes in defeat and thought of Lucy. She was doing this for Lucy, and no one else.
“You knew I wasn’t a gentleman,” he said at last. “You would have preferred someone else. You don’t even care who holds the title.”
“No, I don’t,” she said stubbornly. “You’re as suitable as anyone. All I want—”
“Is someone to provide for Lucinda, yes,” he finished for her. Then he frowned. “Surely her father chose a guardian for her.”
Emilia tried to hide it, but she was sure he saw her flinch.
“He did. Who is it?”
Oh no. She’d hoped he wouldn’t think of that.
“You mentioned the will,” he went on as she stood, paralyzed and mute. “If her father left a will and made a bequest to her, he must also have named a guardian for her.”
She swallowed hard and tried to calm her breathing. “Well—he did—but not a suitable person—”
“Miss Greene.” If she’d thought he was annoyed at her before, now he was angry. Furiously angry, and all the more intimidating for being icily calm. “If your sole desire is to see Lucinda provided for, that is the man you should seek. It is his right, and his obligation, to care for her.”
Emilia cracked first. She looked away, gripping her elbows so hard her fingernails dug into her arms. “I cannot appeal to him,” she said stiffly.
“Why not?”
She set her jaw. “I don’t think he even remembers heisher guardian. He hasn’t contacted us once since Sydenham’s death.”
Thank the merciful heavens, she added silently.
For a moment he stared at her. “And because of that, you decided to badger a complete stranger into becoming her new guardian. Are you mad?” He exhaled and turned toward the door. “We’re done, Miss Greene.”
Emilia clenched her jaw and squeezed her eyes shut, but the sound of his footsteps, loud on the uncarpeted floor, jarred her out of it. “Wait. Wait!” she cried, swinging around and running after him. Dashwood stopped, his hand on the door.
“Her guardian doesn’t care for her,” she said, breathing hard. “He doesn’t even know her.”
“That doesn’t matter,” he replied, flinging back her own words. “The rules don’t demand that a guardian be loving or kind or that he have your approval. Her father named that man, and that is whom the courts will favor, over me or anyone else who petitions for her custody. You must know it.”
