with a trained dog, if he could say it cost him enough." She held out her hands, palms up. "Do you not see, Papa?—I am to be a cosseted pet!"
"All you got to do is bide your time, Nell."
It was no use, and she knew it. He would never understand what she feared. It was easier for him to believe he'd done his best for her. She dropped her hands and turned away. "For all that his leg is bad, he does not appear in poor health otherwise," she responded dryly. "I shall be here years."
"Man's sixty-one," he reminded her.
"And how many wives has he buried already?"
"Two, but they wasn't young."
"I doubt you even know what happened to them," she declared bitterly.
"What's to know? They died."
"From being overmanaged, no doubt."
"That's enough of this, Nell!" Nonetheless, he unbent enough to tell her, "It wasn't that way at all—had the tale from his solicitor. The first did not survive childbirth. The second was a common sort he wed to care for his boy. Fever took her off some years back, and he's been too busy gaining his wealth to be in the petticoat line since."
"But why me, Papa?"
"A pretty, well-bred creature gives a man consequence, and—"
"There you are, Elinor," Charles Kingsley interrupted them, coming into the room. "Your pardon, sir," he addressed her father, "but Grandpapa would see her before the company arrives."
"Is it that late?" Thomas Ashton took out his watch and flipped open the cover. "Egad. Yes—well, best run along, Nell. I've got to see what keeps your mother."
At the stairs, Charles stepped back to let her go up first. As she passed him, he blurted out, "The dress becomes you." And when she turned around, he flushed to the roots of his fair hair. "Ought not to have said that, I suppose, but you look smashing—truly. Bang up to the mark, in fact. Be a credit to the Kingsleys, I'll be bound."
"Thank you."
"Meant it." He ducked his head and lowered his voice. "When I heard he was to wed, I nearly howled at the thought, I can tell you."
"I cannot say I was overjoyed either," she admitted sourly.
"But it ain't so bad, is it? I mean, now when I am down from school I got somebody to talk with besides him." He looked toward the hall above. "He don't bend much, you know—had a devil of a time getting him to let me stay until tomorrow. But the term at Harrow don't start until Monday, anyways."
"At least you know the people who are coming."
"Ain't nobody of note, I'd say—not in Cornwall this time of year, unless they are rusticating. Guess that's why he wants to do it—to see how you fadge in company before he tosses you among the London tabbies."
She started to admit that she had not the least notion of how to go on, then stopped herself for fear he would laugh at her. "No doubt," she murmured instead.
"Hope you ain't cowhanded on the pianoforte."
"I beg your pardon?"
He grinned. "He'll make you play. Sing, too."
"In company?" she gasped. "Oh, but I could not!"
"You'd best do what he asks. He don't like to be denied, I can tell you." He stopped in front of her bedchamber door. "Ruthless," he declared succinctly. "Make you do what you don't want to prove he can do it."
"You do not seem to hold him in high regard," she chided.
His grin faded. "The highest. Got to—can't help admiring a man as has done what he has done. Afraid of him, that's all. But he ain't going to want to be kept waiting—I can tell you that also. See you downstairs before the company arrives."
She pushed open the door to see Arthur Kingsley sitting in a chair pulled before the fire. His long, thin legs were crossed above his polished highlows.
"Come give me a kiss, my dear," he ordered. But his brow creased and his lips pursed as he watched her walk toward him. He waited until she bent to place an obedient peck on his cheek. There was no mistaking that she did not like to do it.
"You look like an infant," he decided sourly.
"You chose the dress, my lord."
"It's the hair. Mary"—he waved a bony hand toward
"All you got to do is bide your time, Nell."
It was no use, and she knew it. He would never understand what she feared. It was easier for him to believe he'd done his best for her. She dropped her hands and turned away. "For all that his leg is bad, he does not appear in poor health otherwise," she responded dryly. "I shall be here years."
"Man's sixty-one," he reminded her.
"And how many wives has he buried already?"
"Two, but they wasn't young."
"I doubt you even know what happened to them," she declared bitterly.
"What's to know? They died."
"From being overmanaged, no doubt."
"That's enough of this, Nell!" Nonetheless, he unbent enough to tell her, "It wasn't that way at all—had the tale from his solicitor. The first did not survive childbirth. The second was a common sort he wed to care for his boy. Fever took her off some years back, and he's been too busy gaining his wealth to be in the petticoat line since."
"But why me, Papa?"
"A pretty, well-bred creature gives a man consequence, and—"
"There you are, Elinor," Charles Kingsley interrupted them, coming into the room. "Your pardon, sir," he addressed her father, "but Grandpapa would see her before the company arrives."
"Is it that late?" Thomas Ashton took out his watch and flipped open the cover. "Egad. Yes—well, best run along, Nell. I've got to see what keeps your mother."
At the stairs, Charles stepped back to let her go up first. As she passed him, he blurted out, "The dress becomes you." And when she turned around, he flushed to the roots of his fair hair. "Ought not to have said that, I suppose, but you look smashing—truly. Bang up to the mark, in fact. Be a credit to the Kingsleys, I'll be bound."
"Thank you."
"Meant it." He ducked his head and lowered his voice. "When I heard he was to wed, I nearly howled at the thought, I can tell you."
"I cannot say I was overjoyed either," she admitted sourly.
"But it ain't so bad, is it? I mean, now when I am down from school I got somebody to talk with besides him." He looked toward the hall above. "He don't bend much, you know—had a devil of a time getting him to let me stay until tomorrow. But the term at Harrow don't start until Monday, anyways."
"At least you know the people who are coming."
"Ain't nobody of note, I'd say—not in Cornwall this time of year, unless they are rusticating. Guess that's why he wants to do it—to see how you fadge in company before he tosses you among the London tabbies."
She started to admit that she had not the least notion of how to go on, then stopped herself for fear he would laugh at her. "No doubt," she murmured instead.
"Hope you ain't cowhanded on the pianoforte."
"I beg your pardon?"
He grinned. "He'll make you play. Sing, too."
"In company?" she gasped. "Oh, but I could not!"
"You'd best do what he asks. He don't like to be denied, I can tell you." He stopped in front of her bedchamber door. "Ruthless," he declared succinctly. "Make you do what you don't want to prove he can do it."
"You do not seem to hold him in high regard," she chided.
His grin faded. "The highest. Got to—can't help admiring a man as has done what he has done. Afraid of him, that's all. But he ain't going to want to be kept waiting—I can tell you that also. See you downstairs before the company arrives."
She pushed open the door to see Arthur Kingsley sitting in a chair pulled before the fire. His long, thin legs were crossed above his polished highlows.
"Come give me a kiss, my dear," he ordered. But his brow creased and his lips pursed as he watched her walk toward him. He waited until she bent to place an obedient peck on his cheek. There was no mistaking that she did not like to do it.
"You look like an infant," he decided sourly.
"You chose the dress, my lord."
"It's the hair. Mary"—he waved a bony hand toward
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