No Conventional Miss. Eleanor Webster

      ‘I’ll go to Father.’

      Paul nodded, looking about the entrance. Sun shone through an octagonal window, forming a patchwork of golden squares on a threadbare runner. Floor wax, flowers and dog hair scented the air in a not-unpleasant combination. Indeed, there was something cosy, almost comfortable about the place.

      A load of codswallop! He would do better to concentrate on Lady Wyburn’s financial interests and not on the unlikely delights of floor wax.

      Glancing up, he found Miss Gibson had not yet withdrawn, but studied him, her head to one side and eyebrows drawn together. She inhaled deeply. The bodice of her gown stretched tightly.

      Her figure was not flat.

      ‘Miss Gibson, was there something else?’ He met her gaze. Her eyes, he noted, were an unusual grey-green and fringed with dark lashes in contrast to her fiery hair.

      ‘I...trust you will not upset my father.’ For the first time, she seemed uncertain.

      ‘It is not my intent. Is Sir George distressed by social calls?’

      Perhaps he was an eccentric academic, comfortable only with dry texts. And card games.

      ‘No, but—’ She frowned, and then squared her shoulders. ‘You have come to discuss Lady Wyburn’s plans for my sister and myself, and I want to make sure you are under no misapprehension about us.’

      ‘I am not prone to misapprehensions and I believe my business is with your father.’

      ‘Lady Wyburn mentioned that you worry about her and I want you to know that you need not. We intend to pay back—’

      ‘Miss Gibson, this discussion is hardly proper.’

      The girl needed a set-down or she’d not survive her own come-out.

      Surprisingly, she laughed. ‘We left propriety when I fell out of the tree. It is only that I’d prefer you did not worry my father about such matters. I can answer any questions you might have.’

      She spoke earnestly, the love and worry for her father evident in her gaze.

      He was not unmoved. ‘I will keep that in mind.’

      She nodded, twisting a fiery ringlet of hair about her finger. ‘I also wanted you to know that I...we care greatly for Lady Wyburn.’

      ‘I also care for her ladyship, Miss Gibson.’

      ‘Then we are of perfect accord.’

      Their gazes met. Hers was like an ocean with depth and movement. She spoke softly but with firmness, and he felt again that peculiar mix of irritation and admiration.

      He also found he believed her.

      ‘Good,’ he said, after a moment. ‘Now that we have clarified our mutual admiration for my stepmother, might we proceed, provided I agree not to unduly distress your father?’

      ‘Of course. This way, my lord. Follow me.’

      Good Lord, her tone was positively chivvying. Again Paul wanted to smile. He hadn’t been chivvied since nursery days and never with success.

      Miss Gibson led him down the hall and pushed open a dark, wood-panelled door. Sir George’s study was small and full of books piled not only on shelves, but in haphazard stacks on the floor and desk. A fire crackled but did not draw properly and smoke hung in blue-grey wisps, scenting the air. A clock ticked, the steady, methodical beat of an old timepiece.

      ‘Father, may I present Lord Wyburn? He is Lady Wyburn’s stepson,’ Miss Gibson said.

      Sir George sat at a desk in the far corner. He wore a shabby, ill-fitting nankeen jacket and appeared small, although that might have been the effect of the books and papers piled about him.

      ‘A timely interruption.’ He stood, running his hand across his balding head and looking at Paul over gilt-framed half-spectacles. ‘Just managed to finish a particularly difficult passage. But most edifying, most edifying. Now what can I do for you, my lord? I’d wager you want to reassure yourself that I have no evil intent, eh? Not likely to run off with the family silver?’

      Paul’s eyebrows rose. Sir George’s sharp eyes, mobile face and the quick movements of his hands gave the impression of considerable energy coiled within his small frame.

      Moreover, the Gibson family had breached, in one afternoon, more rules of etiquette than he’d experienced in years of Continental travel.

      ‘I wouldn’t be quite so blunt,’ he said.

      ‘I would. I would. No point beating about the bush, I always say. Time’s too precious. And I don’t blame you in the slightest. Lady Wyburn’s much too generous. Much too generous. Do take a seat and I’ll answer any question you care to pose. Fire away while Rilla fetches tea.’

      With a wry smile, Paul sat.

      * * *

      Grabbing the copper kettle, Rilla hurried from the kitchen into the scullery and pumped, the handle whining as icy droplets splattered over her hands.

      Bother. She was shaking. Even visits from her father’s gambling gentlemen had not left her so...so...discombobulated.

      Of course, it was that vision. It was the sight of that rain-spattered lake.

      No, it was the man also—his dark good looks, that feeling of sadness which seemed a part of him and the way he made all else dwindle to unimportance.

      Rilla picked up her mother’s rosebud cup. She ran her finger across its rim. The gilt had worn off and the china was so fragile as to be translucent.

      It would have been better if Imogene had met him. She had poise and would not be scrabbling up trees—

      Imogene!

      Rilla gulped. She’d quite forgotten her younger sister. She put down the cup, hurrying to the staircase that led to the bedchambers upstairs.

      ‘Imogene! The viscount’s here!’

      Imogene flung open her door with unaccustomed haste. The scent of rose water spilled from the room as she stepped on to the hall landing. ‘The viscount? Lord Wyburn? Here? What’s he like?’

      ‘Judgemental and unhappy.’

      Imogene started, her blue eyes widening. ‘He said so?’

      Rilla wished she hadn’t spoken. ‘No,’ she admitted after pause.

      ‘Then why do think he is unhappy?’

      Rilla hesitated. She rubbed her hands unnecessarily across the fabric of her gown. ‘I—um—felt it.’

      ‘Felt? No.’ Imogene’s voice was high with strain. ‘It has been years almost.’

       Eleven months.

      ‘It was nothing. I am making too much of it, honestly,’ Rilla said, hating to see her sister’s worry. ‘It was my imagination. And I’m quite well now.’

      ‘You’re still pale.’

      ‘From my fall, I’m sure.’

      ‘You fell? Are you hurt?’ Imogene’s voice rose again, threaded with anxiety as she noticed a pink scratch on Rilla’s forearm.

      Rilla followed her gaze. ‘It’s nothing. Look, you go and charm him. Convince him that we are not hoydens while I make tea.’

      ‘And you’ll not dwell on—on feelings?’

      ‘I will concentrate entirely on the tea. You go. The gentlemen are in the study.’

      ‘You couldn’t lure Father out to the drawing room?’ Imogene asked as they started back down the stairs.

      ‘I didn’t even try.’

      Halfway down, they heard the