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Authors: Karen Hawkins
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That was just one of Father’s stories.” “There are other examples. Think about the duke’s
strange arrival. And not just any duke, either, but Wexford himself. Don’t you think that is odd?”
Arabella had wondered if Robert remembered any- thing about Lucien’s visit over ten years ago, for her brother had been a mere child then. She should have known Robert remembered everything. He’d always had an uncanny knack for ferreting out the truth and discover- ing falsities. And it was obvious he mistrusted Lucien.
Well, she wouldn’t argue with that. She brushed a fin- ger across her mouth. Though it had happened almost two days ago, the pressure of his lips seemed to linger still. She’d thought youthful imagination had romanticized the relationship, but the sensations he’d roused in her told her otherwise. She trailed her fingers up the curve of her cheek, feeling once again his heated breath on her skin. A tremor rose as she remembered how quickly her ardor had risen to match his.
“Well?” asked Robert impatiently. “Don’t you think it is odd the way the duke was tossed into your path?”
“Are you suggesting it was because of a matchmaking ghost?”
“It is possible.”
She managed a grin. “The next time the doctor comes, I am requesting a mustard plaster and a good dose of cod liver oil. That should rid you of these fanciful notions.”
He grinned in return and took another apple slice. “It would solve all of our problems if we could find that treas- ure, wouldn’t it?”
“If it existed.” Something about the sudden gleam in his eyes made her add hastily, “But you know as well as I that Father would have found it if it had been here. He nearly tore the house apart looking for it.”
Robert absently rubbed one of his knees. “Perhaps he missed something.”
“How could he? He knew every crook and crevice of Rosemont. Now, stop eating all of Cook’s apples. She’ll blame me for it and I’m in no mood to be scolded.”
A reluctant smile flitted across his face and he pushed his chair beside her. Though they were brother and sister, their similarity began and ended with their chestnut hair. Where her eyes were dark brown, his were silver-gray. Where she was small, fair-skinned, and round-cheeked, he turned bronze at the slightest show of sun and possessed Father’s broad, athletic figure.
At least he had before the war. Now it made her throat catch to see him so pale, deep circles beneath his eyes, his long legs beginning to thin from disuse.
She rattled the iron damper handle one last time. “I suppose I shall have to ask Wilson to take a look at this. If we find the Captain’s treasure embedded in the stones, I will fetch you immediately.”
“Will you?” He rolled back to the table and took
another apple. “You have always been good at keeping secrets, Bella. Even better than Father.”
“Secrets? What secrets could I have?” She grabbed the broom and began sweeping the hearth. “Unless you call my growing dislike of this smoking chimney a secret. I could happily yank the damper out and toss it into the sea.”
“Not you; you would be much more likely to rebuild the entire chimney to make it work properly, whether it wanted to be rebuilt or not.”
“What do you mean by that?”
His pale gaze flickered toward her before he looked away. “I only meant that if anyone could find a way to fix something, it would be you. And you would do it all by yourself, too. One stone at a time.” He wheeled the chair toward the door, stopping to say in a mild tone, “Wash your hands and face before you go anywhere, Bella. You might scare someone.”
She set the broom aside and looked down at her hands. If she had even a quarter of the amount of soot on her face as was on her palms, she must look a fright. “Is it bad?”
“I’d hate to meet you in a thunder-wrought mansion.” Arabella picked up a shiny pot and peered at her reflec-
tion. Streaks of black ran across
strange arrival. And not just any duke, either, but Wexford himself. Don’t you think that is odd?”
Arabella had wondered if Robert remembered any- thing about Lucien’s visit over ten years ago, for her brother had been a mere child then. She should have known Robert remembered everything. He’d always had an uncanny knack for ferreting out the truth and discover- ing falsities. And it was obvious he mistrusted Lucien.
Well, she wouldn’t argue with that. She brushed a fin- ger across her mouth. Though it had happened almost two days ago, the pressure of his lips seemed to linger still. She’d thought youthful imagination had romanticized the relationship, but the sensations he’d roused in her told her otherwise. She trailed her fingers up the curve of her cheek, feeling once again his heated breath on her skin. A tremor rose as she remembered how quickly her ardor had risen to match his.
“Well?” asked Robert impatiently. “Don’t you think it is odd the way the duke was tossed into your path?”
“Are you suggesting it was because of a matchmaking ghost?”
“It is possible.”
She managed a grin. “The next time the doctor comes, I am requesting a mustard plaster and a good dose of cod liver oil. That should rid you of these fanciful notions.”
He grinned in return and took another apple slice. “It would solve all of our problems if we could find that treas- ure, wouldn’t it?”
“If it existed.” Something about the sudden gleam in his eyes made her add hastily, “But you know as well as I that Father would have found it if it had been here. He nearly tore the house apart looking for it.”
Robert absently rubbed one of his knees. “Perhaps he missed something.”
“How could he? He knew every crook and crevice of Rosemont. Now, stop eating all of Cook’s apples. She’ll blame me for it and I’m in no mood to be scolded.”
A reluctant smile flitted across his face and he pushed his chair beside her. Though they were brother and sister, their similarity began and ended with their chestnut hair. Where her eyes were dark brown, his were silver-gray. Where she was small, fair-skinned, and round-cheeked, he turned bronze at the slightest show of sun and possessed Father’s broad, athletic figure.
At least he had before the war. Now it made her throat catch to see him so pale, deep circles beneath his eyes, his long legs beginning to thin from disuse.
She rattled the iron damper handle one last time. “I suppose I shall have to ask Wilson to take a look at this. If we find the Captain’s treasure embedded in the stones, I will fetch you immediately.”
“Will you?” He rolled back to the table and took
another apple. “You have always been good at keeping secrets, Bella. Even better than Father.”
“Secrets? What secrets could I have?” She grabbed the broom and began sweeping the hearth. “Unless you call my growing dislike of this smoking chimney a secret. I could happily yank the damper out and toss it into the sea.”
“Not you; you would be much more likely to rebuild the entire chimney to make it work properly, whether it wanted to be rebuilt or not.”
“What do you mean by that?”
His pale gaze flickered toward her before he looked away. “I only meant that if anyone could find a way to fix something, it would be you. And you would do it all by yourself, too. One stone at a time.” He wheeled the chair toward the door, stopping to say in a mild tone, “Wash your hands and face before you go anywhere, Bella. You might scare someone.”
She set the broom aside and looked down at her hands. If she had even a quarter of the amount of soot on her face as was on her palms, she must look a fright. “Is it bad?”
“I’d hate to meet you in a thunder-wrought mansion.” Arabella picked up a shiny pot and peered at her reflec-
tion. Streaks of black ran across
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