himself no longer. “Miss Prestwick, ever since you arrived, you have conveyed your view of me as a greedy usurper, cast in alt by the news of my cousin's death. You seem to believe that my whole life has been given to coveting my cousin's title and now that it has fallen into my rapacious clutches, I will do anything, up to and including the removal of the rightful heir, by any means necessary, to keep it."
Helen simply gaped at him, as a tide of heat rose to her cheeks. Dear God, she had just done what she had told herself over and over she must avoid at all costs. She had allowed her feelings to surface and, in doing so, had alienated Mr. Beresford beyond tolerance. What would he do now? Would he turn William out of his house? And herself and Barney as well, of course? How could she have been so stupid? From somewhere deep inside her another voice chimed, “And so rude and unfair.” She blinked, but before she could examine this new thought, Mr. Beresford spoke again, this time in a gentler tone.
"Is this really how you see me, Miss Prestwick? What have I done since you walked through the door of Whitehouse Abbey to cause you to think so badly of me?"
"N-nothing,” Helen stammered, now crimson with embarrassment. “You have been all that is kind and courteous. It's just that—that . . ."
"That what, Miss Prestwick? I think you owe me an explanation for your hostility."
"Well"—Helen felt as though she were floundering in a sea of treacle—"I just imagined that any man a commoner by birth would, er, relish the idea of being a lord.” She lifted her gaze from her clenched fingers to observe that Mr. Beresford's mien was still sober in the extreme. But— what was that in his eyes? Did she detect a gleam of amusement—albeit a very dim gleam?
"And from this theory you crafted your theory of Edward Beresford, Wicked Usurper?"
Helen squirmed. “I—I suppose so. And then, of course, there was Chris."
Another shift altered Mr. Beresford's demeanor. A certain grayness seemed to envelop him. “Ah, yes, Chris. Do tell me, Miss Prestwick, what my estimable cousin had to say about me."
Helen sighed. “Yes, perhaps I'd better do that."
[Back to Table of Contents]
Chapter Ten
Helen paused to fortify herself with a sip of tea, although it bad gone quite cold by now and did nothing to restore her spirits. She was afraid that what she was about to say would mark a change in her relationship with Mr. Beresford, and she was not at all sure she was prepared for this turn of events. She cleared her throat.
"To be honest, sir, Chris did not describe you in very flattering terms."
"To be equally honest. Miss Prestwick, this does not surprise me."
Helen lifted her brows, and Mr. Beresford continued. “I regret to say that Chris and I were at odds almost from birth."
"Yes. Well, that's rather the impression we received when Chris spoke of you—which, actually, was not that often."
"Mm. I suppose not. We did not figure large in each other's lives."
"From what he did say . . .” Once again Helen paused uncertainly. “We could only gather that you were a—a dull stick, mean-spirited and, from the time you were in short skirts, intensely jealous of his title and wealth,” she finished in a rush. She clenched the teacup, her heart pounding unpleasantly. What would be Mr. Beresford's response to this disagreeable assessment? To her surprise, he chuckled.
"Yes, that's what I thought. He said the same thing to me often enough."
"Really?"
"Oh, yes. Chris made no secret of his animosity and spared no occasion to make it known to me."
Helen hesitated, wondering how far she might push Mr. Beresford in his revelations. “And you?” she asked at last. “Was the animosity reciprocated?"
At this, it was Mr. Beresford's turn to hesitate. He glanced at Trix's portrait of Chris in its ornate frame, placed carelessly on a shelf behind his desk.
"I'm afraid so,” he replied after a moment. “I will have to say that
Helen simply gaped at him, as a tide of heat rose to her cheeks. Dear God, she had just done what she had told herself over and over she must avoid at all costs. She had allowed her feelings to surface and, in doing so, had alienated Mr. Beresford beyond tolerance. What would he do now? Would he turn William out of his house? And herself and Barney as well, of course? How could she have been so stupid? From somewhere deep inside her another voice chimed, “And so rude and unfair.” She blinked, but before she could examine this new thought, Mr. Beresford spoke again, this time in a gentler tone.
"Is this really how you see me, Miss Prestwick? What have I done since you walked through the door of Whitehouse Abbey to cause you to think so badly of me?"
"N-nothing,” Helen stammered, now crimson with embarrassment. “You have been all that is kind and courteous. It's just that—that . . ."
"That what, Miss Prestwick? I think you owe me an explanation for your hostility."
"Well"—Helen felt as though she were floundering in a sea of treacle—"I just imagined that any man a commoner by birth would, er, relish the idea of being a lord.” She lifted her gaze from her clenched fingers to observe that Mr. Beresford's mien was still sober in the extreme. But— what was that in his eyes? Did she detect a gleam of amusement—albeit a very dim gleam?
"And from this theory you crafted your theory of Edward Beresford, Wicked Usurper?"
Helen squirmed. “I—I suppose so. And then, of course, there was Chris."
Another shift altered Mr. Beresford's demeanor. A certain grayness seemed to envelop him. “Ah, yes, Chris. Do tell me, Miss Prestwick, what my estimable cousin had to say about me."
Helen sighed. “Yes, perhaps I'd better do that."
[Back to Table of Contents]
Chapter Ten
Helen paused to fortify herself with a sip of tea, although it bad gone quite cold by now and did nothing to restore her spirits. She was afraid that what she was about to say would mark a change in her relationship with Mr. Beresford, and she was not at all sure she was prepared for this turn of events. She cleared her throat.
"To be honest, sir, Chris did not describe you in very flattering terms."
"To be equally honest. Miss Prestwick, this does not surprise me."
Helen lifted her brows, and Mr. Beresford continued. “I regret to say that Chris and I were at odds almost from birth."
"Yes. Well, that's rather the impression we received when Chris spoke of you—which, actually, was not that often."
"Mm. I suppose not. We did not figure large in each other's lives."
"From what he did say . . .” Once again Helen paused uncertainly. “We could only gather that you were a—a dull stick, mean-spirited and, from the time you were in short skirts, intensely jealous of his title and wealth,” she finished in a rush. She clenched the teacup, her heart pounding unpleasantly. What would be Mr. Beresford's response to this disagreeable assessment? To her surprise, he chuckled.
"Yes, that's what I thought. He said the same thing to me often enough."
"Really?"
"Oh, yes. Chris made no secret of his animosity and spared no occasion to make it known to me."
Helen hesitated, wondering how far she might push Mr. Beresford in his revelations. “And you?” she asked at last. “Was the animosity reciprocated?"
At this, it was Mr. Beresford's turn to hesitate. He glanced at Trix's portrait of Chris in its ornate frame, placed carelessly on a shelf behind his desk.
"I'm afraid so,” he replied after a moment. “I will have to say that
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