dumbfounded. "Does your butler always speak in such a blunt manner?" he asked Anne.
She gave a helpless shrug. "I'm afraid he does."
"This would not have been allowed were your dear husband alive." Wallace settled back down next to her on the sofa. "It is a sad fact of life that young widows are one of society's most vulnerable members." He gave Patrick a look. "Prone to being taken advantage of by men of every station."
"Isn't that the truth?" Patrick retorted from the tea trolley
Sir Wallace's eyebrows shot up. "Are you addressing me, Sutherland?"
"Not unless you're an envelope."
Anne shot him a murderous look. "Stop teasing, Sutherland, and pour that tea before it goes cold."
Patrick stared down at the tea trolley, uncertain he could continue with this masquerade and maintain any semblance of dignity whatsoever. And how was he to pour such a sissified beverage into these wee cups with a straight face?
"The tea, Sutherland," Anne said, biting off each word.
He lifted the silver pot and two china cups from the tray. Resentment blatant in his every move, he strode up to the sofa and thrust both cups into Sir Wallace's hands.
"Here. Kindly hold these for a moment."
"What the—"
"Don't move," Patrick warned him. "If you get hot tea dumped in your lap, I shall not accept the blame."
Anne held her breath as Patrick poured from his standing position, and Sir Wallace, speechless, sat as still as death with the cups gripped in his shaking hands.
"This is outrageous," the man sputtered.
"I suppose you both want sugar," Patrick said, turning back to the tray.
"I do," Anne said between her teeth.
"So do I," Sir Wallace said. "However, I do not want it dropped like a bomb into my cup."
Patrick arched his eyebrow. "Fine. Then perhaps you ought to do it yourself." And as Anne watched in disbelief he brought the tea trolley up to the sofa, wedging it as a barrier between her and Sir Wallace.
"There. Now nobody can complain. Drink away."
"Thank you, Sutherland," Anne said tightly. "You may see about your other duties now. Perhaps you could check the flues again. I'm sure Sir Wallace would like to catch me up on the local gossip."
Which meant Lord Kingaim's murder. Patrick didn't need to be hit over the head to get that hint. However, he did not like leaving his Anne alone with this middle-aged Romeo either. Butler or not, he would not tolerate anyone taking advantage of her.
"You know where to find me if you need me, madam," he said. Then he bowed and marched to th e door, giving Sir Wallace a man-to-man look that warned him he had better behave himself, or else.
"That is the most aggravating servant I have ever encountered," Sir Wallace said the instant the door closed.
Anne put her hand to her head. It was throbbing. "Yes, I know."
"Why do you tolerate such impudence in an inferior, Anne?"
"I'm not sure." She stared at the door, fighting an urge to laugh. "Perhaps because he and David were once close."
Which wasn't a lie. The two men had been cousins, and David had always admired Patrick from a distance, although to this day Anne wondered how much he had guessed about her past.
David had envied Patrick's confidence and devil- may-care approach to life. David's interests had leaned toward the scholarly, a quiet man who craved hearth and home. Yet more than once he had admitted to Anne that he wished himself strong enough to accompany Patrick to Bermuda, but he didn't have the stamina for fighting. He didn't even have the stamina to ride with his young wife on the moor.
Anne had been secretly relieved. She cherished her time riding alone, even if more often than not she had spent those times thinking about how different her life might have been if she had married another man. But she couldn't complain, could she? Her husband had worshipped her and her reputation was intact.
"Dear, sad Anne."
She gave a start of alarm as she realized Sir Wallace had taken her hand. His knee pressed against hers, and he was
She gave a helpless shrug. "I'm afraid he does."
"This would not have been allowed were your dear husband alive." Wallace settled back down next to her on the sofa. "It is a sad fact of life that young widows are one of society's most vulnerable members." He gave Patrick a look. "Prone to being taken advantage of by men of every station."
"Isn't that the truth?" Patrick retorted from the tea trolley
Sir Wallace's eyebrows shot up. "Are you addressing me, Sutherland?"
"Not unless you're an envelope."
Anne shot him a murderous look. "Stop teasing, Sutherland, and pour that tea before it goes cold."
Patrick stared down at the tea trolley, uncertain he could continue with this masquerade and maintain any semblance of dignity whatsoever. And how was he to pour such a sissified beverage into these wee cups with a straight face?
"The tea, Sutherland," Anne said, biting off each word.
He lifted the silver pot and two china cups from the tray. Resentment blatant in his every move, he strode up to the sofa and thrust both cups into Sir Wallace's hands.
"Here. Kindly hold these for a moment."
"What the—"
"Don't move," Patrick warned him. "If you get hot tea dumped in your lap, I shall not accept the blame."
Anne held her breath as Patrick poured from his standing position, and Sir Wallace, speechless, sat as still as death with the cups gripped in his shaking hands.
"This is outrageous," the man sputtered.
"I suppose you both want sugar," Patrick said, turning back to the tray.
"I do," Anne said between her teeth.
"So do I," Sir Wallace said. "However, I do not want it dropped like a bomb into my cup."
Patrick arched his eyebrow. "Fine. Then perhaps you ought to do it yourself." And as Anne watched in disbelief he brought the tea trolley up to the sofa, wedging it as a barrier between her and Sir Wallace.
"There. Now nobody can complain. Drink away."
"Thank you, Sutherland," Anne said tightly. "You may see about your other duties now. Perhaps you could check the flues again. I'm sure Sir Wallace would like to catch me up on the local gossip."
Which meant Lord Kingaim's murder. Patrick didn't need to be hit over the head to get that hint. However, he did not like leaving his Anne alone with this middle-aged Romeo either. Butler or not, he would not tolerate anyone taking advantage of her.
"You know where to find me if you need me, madam," he said. Then he bowed and marched to th e door, giving Sir Wallace a man-to-man look that warned him he had better behave himself, or else.
"That is the most aggravating servant I have ever encountered," Sir Wallace said the instant the door closed.
Anne put her hand to her head. It was throbbing. "Yes, I know."
"Why do you tolerate such impudence in an inferior, Anne?"
"I'm not sure." She stared at the door, fighting an urge to laugh. "Perhaps because he and David were once close."
Which wasn't a lie. The two men had been cousins, and David had always admired Patrick from a distance, although to this day Anne wondered how much he had guessed about her past.
David had envied Patrick's confidence and devil- may-care approach to life. David's interests had leaned toward the scholarly, a quiet man who craved hearth and home. Yet more than once he had admitted to Anne that he wished himself strong enough to accompany Patrick to Bermuda, but he didn't have the stamina for fighting. He didn't even have the stamina to ride with his young wife on the moor.
Anne had been secretly relieved. She cherished her time riding alone, even if more often than not she had spent those times thinking about how different her life might have been if she had married another man. But she couldn't complain, could she? Her husband had worshipped her and her reputation was intact.
"Dear, sad Anne."
She gave a start of alarm as she realized Sir Wallace had taken her hand. His knee pressed against hers, and he was
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