Frovtunes’ Kiss by Lisa Manuel

Monteith, how could you? You inherit a title and a fortune and all you can think to do is dally with the staff?”
    Hunched in his chair, Frederick Foster giggled.
    An insupportable weight of embarrassment crushed Moira’s shoulders. Here she sat at her own mother’s table—purchased on their honeymoon in Italy—while a usurper insulted her beyond endurance.
    The back of her chair trembled slightly against her spine. She twisted round to discover Graham towering like a sentinel behind her, hands white-knuckled on the chair’s shield back. No trace of amusement curled his sensual lips now; no mockery glinted from his eyes. Jaw locked, nose pinched, he was a narrowly contained explosion. He frightened her, just a little.
    â€œMother. That…is…enough.” Little more than a murmur, but with an undercurrent that traveled under Moira’s skin. Frederick closed his mouth on a chuckle. Letitia tensed, gaze darting from face to face. Seated beside her, Mr. Paddington pressed both hands to the table as if poised to push to his feet. “Miss Hughes is our guest, Mother, and we shall treat her accordingly.”
    â€œI don’t understand.”
    â€œThen you should not jump to conclusions.”
    Flushed, Augusta Foster looked ready to burst into tears.
    â€œThis is our cousin, Moira Hughes,” Graham said more calmly, yet not entirely without admonition.
    â€œEverett Foster’s stepdaughter,” Letitia clarified with rather more emphasis on
step
than Moira would have preferred. As if to emphasize she wasn’t truly their cousin.
    â€œAnd she is here as my guest.” Graham’s tone clearly challenged anyone to refute the claim. No one did.
    â€œThen, why…” His mother trailed off, her tongue flicking over her upper lip. With a breath she seemed to collect her composure. “If you’ll pardon my asking, why did she disguise herself as a maid?”
    The question had the peculiar effect of raising a sudden chuckle in Moira’s throat—one she just as quickly swallowed. But she had to admit, Mrs. Foster could not be blamed entirely for her misconception, even if her outburst showed a want of decorum. Moira
had
deceived the family, and she couldn’t help feeling Graham had responded rather too harshly over what was, truly, a rather comical misunderstanding.
    He moved to his seat at the head of the table. “Miss Hughes has come to search for something her stepfather might have left here.” One eyebrow rose to a bold slash above his eye. “For reasons you may be able to shed light upon, Mother, she doubted she would receive a warm welcome by our family.”
    Oh, why didn’t he let it go? Why did he persist in making the poor woman squirm?
    And squirm she did, while pressing a hand to her bosom. “Did you, indeed, my dear? I’m sure I don’t know why you would think we’d receive you with anything less than open arms. Your dear mother, too. How is she faring?”
    â€œVery well, thank you for asking.” She answered this and a slew of other polite inquiries as the servants served the soup.
    Thank goodness for Augusta Foster’s endless questions about Monteith Hall and Mr. Paddington’s eager observations about country homes in general, or the meal would have been as festive as a tomb. Frederick and Letitia spoke little, and Graham less, though Moira was keenly aware of his constant gaze upon her.
    Was his scrutiny protective, or predatory? All she knew was because of it, the tension never lifted from the room; she was more than happy to make her escape as soon as the dessert course reached its conclusion.
    Her exodus did not take her far. At Graham’s insistence, she retired to a guest room rather than embark on a late-night journey across the river to her lodging house. She appreciated the gesture, but experienced a pang of regret when Miss Letitia breezed past her in the gallery, bid her an