the platter offered by a footman. "If a girl has eyes in her head, why would she pick a Wynthorne over me?"
Drusilla hid a smile in her napkin, but when she looked across the table again, she knew Brandon had seen.
"Where is this exiled princess from, Mrs. Kent?" It was the first time he'd spoken to her since they sat to eat. "Devonshire?"
Smart Arse. She pursed her lips, glowering at him through the puttering candle flames as his soft chuckles blew them about. "She is from a small island, in the midst of the Caribbean."
"Really? You'll have to show me on the globe." He turned to Elinor. "You still have one in the library, don't you, grandmama?"
"It's a very small nation. I doubt we shall find it," Drusilla said calmly.
"Is she civilized? Sounds like a primitive place, if it's not even mapped." He remarked dryly. "Will she wear a grass skirt and shells around her neck?"
She forced a smile. Each time he laughed she felt it shiver through her bones, spark heat in her blood. And why exactly was she such a fool for his laughter? Merely because it made his eyes crinkle and drew lines at their corners. Something about it was pleasing. Years ago his handsome face was mostly unmarked. Now it was lined with experience. Now it told a story, made him much more interesting. "She might, Mr. Wilder."
"Will she be tattooed and bring a wild hog under her arm as a gift for the Duchess?"
"I can assure you that however she dresses, she is still far more civilized than many folk I know in London." And she shot him a meaningful glare that only made him laugh harder.
"Does she have family here too?" the Captain inquired, pouring himself another glass of wine, ignoring his chortling son.
"She does not. They were all lost in a shipwreck. At sea."
Brandon pretended to dry his eyes on a napkin. "Well, most shipwrecks are at sea. One wouldn't expect it to happen on land."
"You must forgive my grandson, Mrs. Kent," Elinor exclaimed wearily. "He tends to find humor in any situation."
"So I see. Very droll."
Why did he have to be quite so damned attractive? Even when he mocked her, she wanted to run her fingers through his hair, smooth it off his bronzed forehead. Lean over him. Kiss his warm brow. Feel his breath on her neck.
"Well, one has to laugh grandmama, or else one might weep. Laughter is good for the soul, don't you agree Mrs. Kent? Did you never have a good ol' laugh with your country parson husband over the cream tea in Devonshire?"
She felt his son's eyes boring into her. Perhaps he'd felt her chair move, her body get tense suddenly. "In a quiet way we did. There was not so much to laugh at in a small country village. Here I find there is plenty."
"I'm sure there is."
Abruptly Nick cleared his throat. "Can you pass the wine, grandpapa?"
* * * *
After dinner Brandon took her into his grandfather's library. Hoping to get her alone, he found Nick close on his heels. As the evening progressed his son had become steadily less genial, his obsession with the "match-maker" more evident. Brandon assumed it was a boyish crush and would soon end when he found another pretty woman in his way. That's how it had always been for him .
"Nick, perhaps you'd get Mrs. Kent's coat for her?" he said, stopping him in the doorway to the library.
"Why don't you fetch it, father?" There was a very stubborn set to the boy's jaw as he drew on a cigar and faced Brandon. He was only a few inches shorter, his shoulders almost as wide.
"We can all look at the globe together," Drusilla intervened, marching by them both, leading a footman with some candelabra.
Very sneaky, he thought, glaring at her. Of course she didn't want to be alone with him. She pretended not to be afraid of him. But she was afraid of something. As she passed him in the doorway he swallowed her scent and felt it tickle his throat. Both he and Nick followed her, their motion trancelike.
While the footman held the candles higher, all three gathered around the creaky old
Drusilla hid a smile in her napkin, but when she looked across the table again, she knew Brandon had seen.
"Where is this exiled princess from, Mrs. Kent?" It was the first time he'd spoken to her since they sat to eat. "Devonshire?"
Smart Arse. She pursed her lips, glowering at him through the puttering candle flames as his soft chuckles blew them about. "She is from a small island, in the midst of the Caribbean."
"Really? You'll have to show me on the globe." He turned to Elinor. "You still have one in the library, don't you, grandmama?"
"It's a very small nation. I doubt we shall find it," Drusilla said calmly.
"Is she civilized? Sounds like a primitive place, if it's not even mapped." He remarked dryly. "Will she wear a grass skirt and shells around her neck?"
She forced a smile. Each time he laughed she felt it shiver through her bones, spark heat in her blood. And why exactly was she such a fool for his laughter? Merely because it made his eyes crinkle and drew lines at their corners. Something about it was pleasing. Years ago his handsome face was mostly unmarked. Now it was lined with experience. Now it told a story, made him much more interesting. "She might, Mr. Wilder."
"Will she be tattooed and bring a wild hog under her arm as a gift for the Duchess?"
"I can assure you that however she dresses, she is still far more civilized than many folk I know in London." And she shot him a meaningful glare that only made him laugh harder.
"Does she have family here too?" the Captain inquired, pouring himself another glass of wine, ignoring his chortling son.
"She does not. They were all lost in a shipwreck. At sea."
Brandon pretended to dry his eyes on a napkin. "Well, most shipwrecks are at sea. One wouldn't expect it to happen on land."
"You must forgive my grandson, Mrs. Kent," Elinor exclaimed wearily. "He tends to find humor in any situation."
"So I see. Very droll."
Why did he have to be quite so damned attractive? Even when he mocked her, she wanted to run her fingers through his hair, smooth it off his bronzed forehead. Lean over him. Kiss his warm brow. Feel his breath on her neck.
"Well, one has to laugh grandmama, or else one might weep. Laughter is good for the soul, don't you agree Mrs. Kent? Did you never have a good ol' laugh with your country parson husband over the cream tea in Devonshire?"
She felt his son's eyes boring into her. Perhaps he'd felt her chair move, her body get tense suddenly. "In a quiet way we did. There was not so much to laugh at in a small country village. Here I find there is plenty."
"I'm sure there is."
Abruptly Nick cleared his throat. "Can you pass the wine, grandpapa?"
* * * *
After dinner Brandon took her into his grandfather's library. Hoping to get her alone, he found Nick close on his heels. As the evening progressed his son had become steadily less genial, his obsession with the "match-maker" more evident. Brandon assumed it was a boyish crush and would soon end when he found another pretty woman in his way. That's how it had always been for him .
"Nick, perhaps you'd get Mrs. Kent's coat for her?" he said, stopping him in the doorway to the library.
"Why don't you fetch it, father?" There was a very stubborn set to the boy's jaw as he drew on a cigar and faced Brandon. He was only a few inches shorter, his shoulders almost as wide.
"We can all look at the globe together," Drusilla intervened, marching by them both, leading a footman with some candelabra.
Very sneaky, he thought, glaring at her. Of course she didn't want to be alone with him. She pretended not to be afraid of him. But she was afraid of something. As she passed him in the doorway he swallowed her scent and felt it tickle his throat. Both he and Nick followed her, their motion trancelike.
While the footman held the candles higher, all three gathered around the creaky old
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