“He would do wonders for mine as well,” Rafe agreed.
Mayne had found a little heap of cast-iron horses and was sorting them out so that each carriage was pulled by a matched pair. “You know, these are quite good.” He had all the cast-iron horses and their carriages lined up on the mantelpiece now. “Wait till your wards see these horses. They won’t think twice about the move from Scotland. Pity there’s no boy among them.”
Rafe just looked at him. The earl was one of his dearest friends, and always would be. But Mayne’s sleek, protected life had not put him in the way of grief. Rafe knew only too well what it felt like to find oneself lonely in the midst of a cozy nursery, and cast-iron horses wouldn’t help, for all he found himself buying more and more of them. As if toys would make up for a dead father. “I hardly think you—”
The door behind him swung open. He stopped and turned.
Brinkley moved to the side more nimbly than was his practice. It wasn’t every day that one got to knock the master speechless with surprise. “I’m happy to announce Miss Essex. Miss Imogen. Miss Annabel. Miss Josephine.”
Then he added, unable to resist, if the truth be known, “The children have arrived, Your Grace.”
Chapter 2
T he first thing Teresa Essex noticed was that the Englishmen were playing with toys. Toys! That fit with everything they’d heard about Englishmen: thin, puny types they were, who never grew up and shivered with cold during a stiff breeze.
Still, they were only men, if English versions of them.Tess hadn’t been much over sixteen years old when she realized that men’s notions of toys were flexible. With a glance at Josie and a touch on Imogen’s shoulder she brought her sisters into a straight line. Annabel had already fallen into place, her head tilted just so, the better to allow the beholders to appreciate the sheen of her honey-golden hair.
These Englishmen looked even more shocked at the sight of the four of them than was usual. They were practically gaping. Quite rude, really. They weren’t exactly the spindly-legged, sickly creatures she would have expected, from what was said about Englishmen. The one of them looked like a fashion plate and had a wild mop of black curls that she supposed must be fashionable. Not that he was a dandy. Dandies didn’t have that faintly dangerous air. The other was tall, with a bit of a gut and a messy shock of brown hair falling over his brow. A lone wolf, perhaps.
“Well,” she said finally, when no one spoke, “we are, naturally, sorry to interrupt you both, especially when you were so gainfully occupied.” She gave it just the faintest stress. Just enough to let them know that they were not merely pretty Scottish lasses, to be shunted off to the back room and ignored. They were ladies, after all, whether they wore unfashionable clothing or not.
The elegant one bowed and came forward, saying, “What a delightful surprise to meet you, Miss Essex. All of you.”
There was something odd about his voice, as if he were having trouble not laughing. But he kissed her hand with all the adroitness of a courtier.
Then finally the big one, the lone wolf, shook himself, for all the world like a dog coming out of a puddle, and came to her side as well. “I apologize for my impoliteness,” he said. “I am Rafe Jourdain, the Duke of Holbrook. I’m afraid that I mistook your ages.”
“Our ages?” Tess let her eyebrows ask a delicate question. Then, slowly, the implications of the gaudily painted room and the clusters of toys sank in. “You thought we were still children?”
He nodded, standing before her now, bowing again, the easy sweep of a man who has spent his lifetime in the highest echelons of society, even though he (apparently) didn’t bother to brush his hair. “I offer you all my heartiest apologies. I was under the erroneous belief that you and your sisters were quite young.”
“Young!” Tess said. “You must have thought we were mere babes in arms!” Because now she had taken in the presence of a nanny and four gaping young nursemaids in white aprons, the rocking horses, the dolls. “Didn’t Papa tell you—”
But she broke off. Of course Papa hadn’t told him. Papa had likely informed him of Starling’s age, and Wanton’s stride, and what Lady of Pleasure liked to eat before a race, but not the ages of his daughters.
Their guardian had taken her hand and was smiling down at her now, and her heart warmed despite her resentment. “I’m such a fool that I forgot to ask your father. And, of course, I hadn’t the faintest notion that my guardianship would be needed. Will you accept my deepest sympathies for your loss, Miss Essex?”
Tess blinked. His eyes were a curious color, sort of a gray-blue. And kind, for all he looked like a wild man of Borneo. A dash of hope mixed with the bleak feeling of defensiveness in her chest.
“Of course,” she said. “May I introduce my sisters? This is Imogen,” she said, turning to her sister. “Imogen is just turned twenty.” There were moments when she thought that Imogen was more beautiful than Annabel (and that was really saying something). She had their mother’s sleek black hair and her laughing eyes, but that mouth—only Imogen had a mouth that took such an exquisite curve. Sometimes it struck men like a blow in the stomach; it was rather interesting to watch the duke blink and recover.
Imogen, of course, never paid any mind to the effect she had on men because she was in love. She did smile at the duke, though, and gave a pretty curtsy. When their father had a bit of money, he usually remembered to hire a governess for a time, at least, and so they all could put on dandified manners when required.
“This is Annabel,” Tess said, putting a hand on Annabel’s arm. “Annabel is the eldest after me; she is twenty-two.” If Imogen paid no heed to men, Annabel must have toddled out of her nurse’s arms knowing how to flirt. Now she gave the duke a rosy-lipped smile that spoke of innocence and something else; she pitched her voice to the tune of an unheavenly appreciation. Her simple greeting sounded like honey with an edge of lemon.
The duke showed no sign of turning weak at the knees. “Miss Annabel,” he said, bringing her hand to his lips. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“And Josephine,” Tess said. “Josie is fifteen, and still in the schoolroom.”
Tess noticed that the duke was already smiling at Josie, which was a sign of his good manners. She loathed it when men acted as if they were stuck by glue to Annabel’s side and only gave Josie the scantest glance.
“I’d rather you didn’t kiss my hand,” Josie said briskly.
“May I introduce a friend of mine?” the duke said, acting as if he didn’t hear Josie’s comment, although he made no effort to kiss her hand. “Garret Langham, the Earl of Mayne.”
Annabel gave Mayne a blithely appreciative smile, as if she were a four-year-old being handed a piece of birthday cake. There was nothing more to Annabel’s taste than a man in possession of all his limbs and a title.
Mayne smiled back with something of the same admiration, although Tess thought that his emotion likely had little to do with Annabel’s forefathers.
The gentlemen completed their greetings, and the duke turned back to her. “Miss Essex, since none of you are likely to have interest in these—” he waved his hand—“these playthings, shall we retire to the public rooms? I’m afraid that my housekeeper will likely need a short period of time to ready bedchambers for you, but I imagine your maids will assist.”