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The hand she held was slim. She would have to play it with skill. Lord Armstrong must be made aware from the outset of this interview that his daughter was no mat for him to wipe his feet upon. She considered seating herself behind the desk, but her father’s imprint on the leather chair made her feel squeamish. Instead, she spread the silk skirts of her carriage dress out and endeavoured to look as relaxed and comfortable as she could on the hated wooden chair. Her gown, with its wide leg-of-mutton sleeves and tight cuffs, was deceptively simple. The scalloping on the bodice and collar was subtle but intricately worked, continuing down the front panel to the the hem. The belt of the same royal blue which cinched her waist was held with a gold buckle. Her outfit was elegant and so à la mode that it screamed Paris to anyone who cared to notice. Her father, however, had little time for women and things feminine. It gave her a little kick of satisfaction, knowing that the evidence of her success, displayed in full view, would be quite lost on him.
The sound of a footfall outside the door alerted her to his arrival. Cordelia put a hand over the heart which threatened to jump out of her chest, and sternly quelled the instinct to rise from her seat.
* * *
She had thought herself prepared, but as the door opened and Lord Armstrong made his entrance, a lump formed in Cordelia’s throat. There were, it seemed, some things which neither logic nor experience could tame. Here was her father, and she could not control the rush of affection which brought tears to her eyes, stemmed only by a supreme effort of will from falling. Foolish of her, but she had not expected him to look so much older. His grey hair was sparser, revealing tender patches of pink pate. Pouches had formed under his eyes, though the blue-grey colour of his irises was still disconcertingly the exact shade of her own. His face was thinner too, giving a beakiness to his nose and a translucence to his skin, though he was still a handsome man.
He still had presence too. Barely a falter in his step there was, as he nodded curtly, as if it had been a few days since last they had met. The atmosphere in the book room changed too, when he took his seat behind the desk. She had forgotten that about him. He was like a necromancer, conjuring moods at will. She was already tense, her toes curled inside her kid boots, her shoulders straight like a soldier on parade, and it was too late to relax, because his eyes were upon her and he was drumming his fingers, his chin resting on one hand. But she was no longer a child, and had, for nine years, perforce, to consider herself no longer his daughter. He had not the right to judge her, and she was not inclined to permit him to do so.
Silence stretched. Another of his tricks, but it was one which Cordelia had also acquired. By the time he raised his brows after what seemed like an eternity, she had herself under control.
‘You are looking surprisingly well.’
‘Yes,’ she replied with a cool smile. She waited, listening to the clock on the mantel ticking. It always seemed to tock much louder than it ticked, counting out the seconds like a measured, doom-laden tread towards eternity. She wondered, as she had so many times before, if he had had it adjusted to do so.
Finally, her father spoke. ‘Almost a decade ago you absconded from these premises, leaving devastation in your wake. I shall never understand what I did to deserve such ingratitude, nor such a flagrant flouting of my will.’
‘Your will!’ The words were out before she could stop them. ‘What about my will, Father? Did you ever stop to consider...’
‘Unlike yourself, I never act without a great deal of consideration.’
Lord Armstrong steepled his fingers and eyed her across the expanse of polished walnut. Furious with herself, Cordelia bit her lip, grateful that the layers of corsets and stiffened petticoats which her robe required, concealed her heaving chest. ‘I did not request this interview to discuss the past, but the future,’ she said.
‘Indeed? You do not think the past pertinent, then? You do not feel it incumbent to explain how you have spent your years...’
‘In exile? In the wilderness?’
‘Outwith the shelter of your family,’ Lord Armstrong concluded smoothly.
‘No,’ Cordelia said baldly. ‘Caro and Cressie informed you that I was well,’ she continued, unable to tolerate another lengthy silence. ‘They also informed you that should you wish to contact me, you could do so through either of them. You did not, I must assume because you were not interested or did not care. Both most likely. So no, I don’t think it either pertinent or—or incumbent upon me to explain myself,’ she concluded hurriedly, realising that she was on the brink of doing just that.
She glared at him, defying the stupid, stupid tears to fall. He didn’t care. It made it so much more humiliating to discover that she, after all, cared a great deal.
‘You are thirty years of age,’ Lord Armstrong said.
‘Next month,’ Cordelia replied cautiously, wondering where this new tack would lead.
‘And still, I assume, unmarried?’
‘May I ask why you make such an assumption?’
Her father smiled thinly. ‘Though I am sure we would both rather the case were otherwise, you are my daughter, and I do understand you. You would not be here playing the supplicant had you any other means.’
‘You don’t think my sisters would support me?’
‘I don’t think you would accept their support,’ Lord Armstrong retorted.
The truth of this made her determined to destroy that smug certainty of his. ‘The possibility of my having a dependant of my own has not occurred to you, I suppose,’ Cordelia said.
Her father looked fleetingly appalled, but his expression was quickly veiled. ‘Even you, Cordelia, would not have the temerity to foist a bastard upon the family.’
Even she! Thinking of her sisters’ various exploits, Cordelia was forced to repress a smile. Marriage, no matter how belated, had obviously mitigated their actions in her father’s eyes, despite the fact that not a single one of those marriages had been of his making. How pleasant it must be, to bend the facts to one’s perception, as he did. She doubted he ever had trouble sleeping at night, and wished fleetingly that she too, had the knack of looking at the world through a window of her own making.
But she had not, and she did not really wish to be cast in her father’s mould. What she wanted, more than anything, was to be out of this room and this house as quickly as possible. There would be no conciliation, no regrets or apologies nor even a passive acceptance. ‘I didn’t come here to beg your forgiveness, Father,’ Cordelia said. ‘I’m sorry to disappoint you, but nor am I in need of support, monetary or moral.’
To anyone who did not know him, his face remained impassive, but Cordelia did know him. Lord Armstrong sat a little straighter. His eyes lost that deceptively faraway look. ‘You will explain yourself.’
‘Contrary to your expectations, these last nine years have been most productive and extremely enjoyable. I do not regret an action or a moment.’ Which was mostly true. ‘However, I am tired of my itinerant life, and I wish to settle back home, here in England. I do not need your help with this as I have more than adequate means for the purchase of an estate.’
She waited, but Lord Armstrong seemed rather stunned. Cordelia hugged her satisfaction to herself. ‘My sisters were of the opinion that you had changed, that you would regret the enmity between us. I hoped rather than believed they were right, just as I hoped rather than believed that you would apologise for the wrongs you have done me. Sadly, you have lived down to my expectations, Father. It behoves me only to inform you that I intend to re-establish contact with my family, regardless of your wishes.’
She was rather pleased with this little speech, and her own unwavering delivery. If she was expecting it to have any impact on her father, Cordelia was, however, destined to be disappointed. ‘I wonder why, since you are so unrepentant and so confident in achieving your aims, you have not