off the delicious and rich scent of an earthen fire. Comfortable chairs were positioned about the space. Tables overflowed with books and newspaper sheets. This was the home of someone who loved the written word.
To her astonishment, a large marmalade cat purred audibly from the Turkish rug just before the fire.
This didn't look like the abode of a known seducer.
It didn't even look like the abode of someone as outlandish as Aston. It looked like a very comfortable, well-placed farmer’s home. She had no idea what to say.
"Expecting marble halls were you?” he asked.
"Not exactly,” she replied.
"Da and I like to be at ease when we're together,” the young man explained. “There's only a cook. No maid."
"No other servants?" her own maid said. "The poor woman."
"Oh, Hancock is a man,” he corrected lightly. “And there's nothing poor about him. He loves his job and fusses terribly if there's too much dust about. He's always trying to order things, no matter how hard we try to stop him."
Rosamund exchanged a look with Maeve. What the devil was going on?
Well, she was a fool if she'd been expecting anything but highly unusual.
"May I ask your name?" she said at last.
“Oh, do forgive me. It’s Tony, Lady Rosamund.”
“Tony?"
"Yes, the short form for Anthony. My mother was a very forgetful person and she was constantly praying to St. Anthony. . . Her forgetfulness of certain days led to my birth, thank the good lord, and hence, my name. Anthony.”
She felt her cheeks burn anew. She felt certain she understood what forgetting certain days meant. After all, her maid had shared the information with her when no mother had been able to do so. Had he really just said such a thing to her?
"Have I shocked you?” he asked jovially. “I am always forgetting what's acceptable and not.”
She had sincere trouble believing that. Tony had a canny look. One which seemed to suggest he'd be happy to throw out commentary just to see if people would dance to his tune.
“Tony,” she said, “if I am to call you that, you must call me Rosamund.”
"A bit too informal don’t you think?”
"Well, since I shall be staying here with your father—"
He shook his head. “No."
She frowned. ”I beg your pardon?”
“Alas,” Tony began with great dramatic sorrow. “My father has done as he is wont to do. He has made other plans since you last spoke to him.”
"What?" she demanded, suddenly stunned.
"Devilish bad of him, no? But he's a creature of his whims, a will-o’-the-wisp, one taken by the current and all that.”
There was such a note of his father's blustering that she had a feeling it was a complete lie. Suddenly, she knew with utter certainty that Aston’s invitation for her to join him here had been the action that wasn't true to his character. Not coming was a calculated choice on the duke’s part. Not whim.
"He must have liked you too well,” Tony observed as he poured two large brandies and, without discrimination, handed one to Rosamund and the other to her maid.
"You've come a long way to spend Christmas with just me,” he said smiling. “But you're welcome to stay.”
She stared at him as his words sank in. A dispiriting thought hit her. "I've ruined your Christmas.”
“Ruined?” Tony guffawed. “By gad, no. You and I shall get along swimmingly though my father’s letter was adamant. I am to get up to no funny business with you. On pain of death or shipping off to parts unknown. I quite like England and its comforts. He knows this. So, I shall attempt nothing and therefore you can stay. By the way, that warning he sent me? It’s also a sign he liked you too much.”
"How can liking be the reason he'd not join me?" she asked, almost to herself.
"Take a drink." Tony poured himself a glass.
It was on the tip of her tongue to suggest he was too young, but she had a decided feeling that he was far more experienced than she in many fields. The fields of love and making merry
To her astonishment, a large marmalade cat purred audibly from the Turkish rug just before the fire.
This didn't look like the abode of a known seducer.
It didn't even look like the abode of someone as outlandish as Aston. It looked like a very comfortable, well-placed farmer’s home. She had no idea what to say.
"Expecting marble halls were you?” he asked.
"Not exactly,” she replied.
"Da and I like to be at ease when we're together,” the young man explained. “There's only a cook. No maid."
"No other servants?" her own maid said. "The poor woman."
"Oh, Hancock is a man,” he corrected lightly. “And there's nothing poor about him. He loves his job and fusses terribly if there's too much dust about. He's always trying to order things, no matter how hard we try to stop him."
Rosamund exchanged a look with Maeve. What the devil was going on?
Well, she was a fool if she'd been expecting anything but highly unusual.
"May I ask your name?" she said at last.
“Oh, do forgive me. It’s Tony, Lady Rosamund.”
“Tony?"
"Yes, the short form for Anthony. My mother was a very forgetful person and she was constantly praying to St. Anthony. . . Her forgetfulness of certain days led to my birth, thank the good lord, and hence, my name. Anthony.”
She felt her cheeks burn anew. She felt certain she understood what forgetting certain days meant. After all, her maid had shared the information with her when no mother had been able to do so. Had he really just said such a thing to her?
"Have I shocked you?” he asked jovially. “I am always forgetting what's acceptable and not.”
She had sincere trouble believing that. Tony had a canny look. One which seemed to suggest he'd be happy to throw out commentary just to see if people would dance to his tune.
“Tony,” she said, “if I am to call you that, you must call me Rosamund.”
"A bit too informal don’t you think?”
"Well, since I shall be staying here with your father—"
He shook his head. “No."
She frowned. ”I beg your pardon?”
“Alas,” Tony began with great dramatic sorrow. “My father has done as he is wont to do. He has made other plans since you last spoke to him.”
"What?" she demanded, suddenly stunned.
"Devilish bad of him, no? But he's a creature of his whims, a will-o’-the-wisp, one taken by the current and all that.”
There was such a note of his father's blustering that she had a feeling it was a complete lie. Suddenly, she knew with utter certainty that Aston’s invitation for her to join him here had been the action that wasn't true to his character. Not coming was a calculated choice on the duke’s part. Not whim.
"He must have liked you too well,” Tony observed as he poured two large brandies and, without discrimination, handed one to Rosamund and the other to her maid.
"You've come a long way to spend Christmas with just me,” he said smiling. “But you're welcome to stay.”
She stared at him as his words sank in. A dispiriting thought hit her. "I've ruined your Christmas.”
“Ruined?” Tony guffawed. “By gad, no. You and I shall get along swimmingly though my father’s letter was adamant. I am to get up to no funny business with you. On pain of death or shipping off to parts unknown. I quite like England and its comforts. He knows this. So, I shall attempt nothing and therefore you can stay. By the way, that warning he sent me? It’s also a sign he liked you too much.”
"How can liking be the reason he'd not join me?" she asked, almost to herself.
"Take a drink." Tony poured himself a glass.
It was on the tip of her tongue to suggest he was too young, but she had a decided feeling that he was far more experienced than she in many fields. The fields of love and making merry
Similar Books
