A Wicked Pursuit by Isabella Bradford

obvious dismay, replacing anything that might have been stubbornness.
    “Please, my lord, you cannot,” she said quickly. “That is, he is not here, but has—has gone to Norwich on business, but if he were here, I know he would agree with you in this, and so I—I will defer to you, my lord. Yes. That is what we shall do.”
    The speed of her capitulation surprised him, and he frowned, studying her closely. He knew an untruth when he heard one, though this particular untruth was so badly told that any child would have perceived it for what it was. Worse yet, she appeared almost on the verge of tears, her wide gray eyes so unhappy that he felt small and mean and very, very sorry.
    But why should she not wish her father involved? Had they already had words about him?
    “Very well, Miss Augusta,” he said gruffly. He didn’t want to disturb her any further, whatever the reason, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to apologize when he wasn’t sure what he’d done. “I am glad we are in agreement.”
    She sniffed, and patted blindly at her nose with her handkerchief.
    “Yes, we are,” he said hastily, supplying the answer when she didn’t. “Now, why don’t we begin with you sharing that magazine in your hand?”
    She took a deep breath to recover herself, and looked down at the magazine as if seeing it for the first time.
    “You said you were bored, my lord, and wished diversion,” she said, her voice wavering a fraction as she held the cover up so he could see the title for himself. “I fear my father is not much of a reader, but I did find this in his library, and thought it might be sufficiently amusing to you.”
    He was oddly touched that she would take his earlier grumblings about boredom and ennui so seriously, even if it meant her finding a dog-eared copy of The Gentleman’s Magazine and Historical Chronicle , six months out of date and dry reading even when it was new. He hadn’t the heart to tell her that he’d already addressed his lack of reading material by sending to his London bookseller for a selection of the newest books, journals, and newspapers.
    He also wouldn’t tell her just yet that this morning he’d sent for a few other things, as well as people, to help him pass the time. It didn’t seem right, given her present humor, and besides, she’d learn of it soon enough when the arrivals and deliveries from London began.
    But right now she was staring at him.
    “You’re shaven, my lord,” she said. “Your beard is quite gone. How did I not notice that?”
    “It had overstayed its welcome,” he said, rubbing his hand along his clean-shaven jaw for emphasis. “Do you regret that it is gone?”
    “I do not,” she said primly. “Your visage is much improved, my lord. You no longer resemble a pirate.”
    Thank God she’d stopped looking like she was going to blubber and weep. From relief, he laughed, something he had done far too little of lately. “What do you know of pirates, Miss Augusta?”
    “Enough to know that you looked like one, my lord,” she said succinctly. “Would you like to read now?”
    “I want you to read to me,” he said, settling back against the pillows. “I find I am still too weak to hold a page before me.”
    Skeptically she glanced at his forearms, which, though diminished by illness, were still impressive. “Are you certain of that, my lord?”
    “I am,” he said, folding his supposedly weak arms comfortably over the coverlet. “Reading aloud will be an important part of your new duties. The Patton woman couldn’t read worth a tinker’s damn. You’re bound to surpass her. Now sit there, in the armchair, so I’ll have no trouble hearing you.”
    “Very well, my lord,” she said, unrolling the magazine. “Might I turn the chair toward the window, my lord, to improve the light for reading?”
    Did he detect a slight whiff of mockery in her obedience, a hint of obsequious sarcasm in the way she tipped her head?
    “You may move the chair