and appreciated the way she struggled with the difficult problem of finding herself responsible for him. But amiability was one thing. In this situation it was vital that he keep the conversation and his thoughts on an even keel. She was his nurse and comforter now, so of course he’d like her. But he hardly knew her. It was time to remedy that, at least.
“You’ve kept the family together, which can’t have been easy,” he said. “From what the doctor said, you aren’t much older than your brothers, and weren’t that old when your father died.”
“It wasn’t hard,” she said, concentrating on her stitching. “It’s all I know, after all.”
He watched her as she stitched. She was nothing like the women he was used to, or any of the ladies ofLondon. They wore curls or ringlets these days. Her gleaming hair was pulled back in a queue, as a gentleman might have worn his a generation before. Stray gossamer filaments of it were stirred by the breeze from the open window. It shone from cleanliness, not pomade, he realized, and that was unusual in ladies of the ton. Many didn’t use oils to tame their hair because their own did the trick. London put a premium on looks, not frequent use of soap.
It was more than her hair. Drum knew fashion, and Alexandria Gascoyne either didn’t want or couldn’t afford it. She wore an old gown with a vaguely pink floral pattern today, though she’d look much better in any of the bold colors that were the current craze. Not that she looked bad to him. She really was quite lovely, he thought, watching her, though she didn’t seem to know it or at least refused to capitalize on it. He guessed she was at least one and twenty but it was hard to say; she had the bearing and demeanor of a much more mature woman. Her manner was open, almost masculine in its directness. Her appearance was not.
Men in London spoke about the virtues of country women, the attractions and abilities of milkmaids with their clear eyes and fine complexions and strong constitutions. They were thought to be ignorant and gauche, but freer, more robust, ribald, and passionate than other women. More disease-free, too. That meant there was considerable call for them in the brothels, so much so that madams commonly met incoming stagecoaches with offers of employment for girls just arriving from the country. Alexandria Gascoyne had that kind of fresh loveliness, but Drum wasn’t misled. Her mind was anything but provincial.
Still, it was hard to appraise her mind when her body was so close. Her figure was sturdy but not overblown, she had fine, full breasts, a waist that curved to a firm, rounded bottom…
He looked away. She exerted a strong pull on his senses. He acknowledged it, and firmly put the knowledge aside. Sensual pleasure was vital to a man’s happiness—at least, to his happiness. But if there was one thing he knew, it was propriety, and he was cursed with common sense. This wasn’t the time or place, he reminded himself, and she certainly wasn’t the woman to think such things about.
“The boys don’t look like you,” he said, trying to turn his train of thought. “Your hair for one thing, their eyes for another. In fact, they don’t resemble each other that much either.”
She smiled. “You’re observant. There’s no reason they should. We’re not related, and neither are they. They’re adopted.”
He was surprised. He hadn’t heard much, but enough to get the impression that the late Mr. Gascoyne had been a private and solitary man, not the usual sort to take in foundlings.
“Mr. Gascoyne came to a crossroads in his career some years ago,” Alexandria explained, keeping her attention on her stitching, “He lost his position at Eton—”
“ That’s where I know the name from!” Drum cried, suddenly remembering a little man stalking down the corridors, his sour face wrinkled as a walnut, looking as unapproachable as everyone said he was. “I was never in his classes, but
“You’ve kept the family together, which can’t have been easy,” he said. “From what the doctor said, you aren’t much older than your brothers, and weren’t that old when your father died.”
“It wasn’t hard,” she said, concentrating on her stitching. “It’s all I know, after all.”
He watched her as she stitched. She was nothing like the women he was used to, or any of the ladies ofLondon. They wore curls or ringlets these days. Her gleaming hair was pulled back in a queue, as a gentleman might have worn his a generation before. Stray gossamer filaments of it were stirred by the breeze from the open window. It shone from cleanliness, not pomade, he realized, and that was unusual in ladies of the ton. Many didn’t use oils to tame their hair because their own did the trick. London put a premium on looks, not frequent use of soap.
It was more than her hair. Drum knew fashion, and Alexandria Gascoyne either didn’t want or couldn’t afford it. She wore an old gown with a vaguely pink floral pattern today, though she’d look much better in any of the bold colors that were the current craze. Not that she looked bad to him. She really was quite lovely, he thought, watching her, though she didn’t seem to know it or at least refused to capitalize on it. He guessed she was at least one and twenty but it was hard to say; she had the bearing and demeanor of a much more mature woman. Her manner was open, almost masculine in its directness. Her appearance was not.
Men in London spoke about the virtues of country women, the attractions and abilities of milkmaids with their clear eyes and fine complexions and strong constitutions. They were thought to be ignorant and gauche, but freer, more robust, ribald, and passionate than other women. More disease-free, too. That meant there was considerable call for them in the brothels, so much so that madams commonly met incoming stagecoaches with offers of employment for girls just arriving from the country. Alexandria Gascoyne had that kind of fresh loveliness, but Drum wasn’t misled. Her mind was anything but provincial.
Still, it was hard to appraise her mind when her body was so close. Her figure was sturdy but not overblown, she had fine, full breasts, a waist that curved to a firm, rounded bottom…
He looked away. She exerted a strong pull on his senses. He acknowledged it, and firmly put the knowledge aside. Sensual pleasure was vital to a man’s happiness—at least, to his happiness. But if there was one thing he knew, it was propriety, and he was cursed with common sense. This wasn’t the time or place, he reminded himself, and she certainly wasn’t the woman to think such things about.
“The boys don’t look like you,” he said, trying to turn his train of thought. “Your hair for one thing, their eyes for another. In fact, they don’t resemble each other that much either.”
She smiled. “You’re observant. There’s no reason they should. We’re not related, and neither are they. They’re adopted.”
He was surprised. He hadn’t heard much, but enough to get the impression that the late Mr. Gascoyne had been a private and solitary man, not the usual sort to take in foundlings.
“Mr. Gascoyne came to a crossroads in his career some years ago,” Alexandria explained, keeping her attention on her stitching, “He lost his position at Eton—”
“ That’s where I know the name from!” Drum cried, suddenly remembering a little man stalking down the corridors, his sour face wrinkled as a walnut, looking as unapproachable as everyone said he was. “I was never in his classes, but
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