His Convenient Marchioness. Elizabeth Rolls

heat in his veins. Her lips parted and for a moment he thought she would speak, but with the merest nod she returned her attention to the book and settled the little girl closer, speaking too quietly to hear anything beyond the question in her voice. The child nodded and the book was set aside.

      Hunt forced himself to turn to the shelves. All he saw was a pair of midnight eyes in a still, pale face. He gritted his teeth, willing away the shocking heat. For God’s sake! He was fifty. Not a green boy to be rattled by an unexpected attraction. And he didn’t prey on governesses, damn it! Although...no. The resemblance to the boy was clear. Not the governess. Their mother and that meant she was married. Respectably married judging by her gown and the fact that she took her children about with her, rather than leaving it to a governess. Memory stirred. She had nearly spoken to him and he had seen those eyes before. It was not just that unwelcome flare of attraction. Did he know her? He started to turn back, but stopped. She had neither smiled, nor given any hint of encouragement. When a lady made it clear she did not wish to acknowledge an acquaintance, then a gentleman acquiesced. The Marquess of Huntercombe did not accost strange females in bookshops.

      ‘Harry?’ The woman spoke firmly. ‘Will you have Mr Swift this week?’

      At the musical, slightly husky voice, Hunt’s memory stirred again.

      ‘I don’t mind.’

      Perusing the bookshelves, Hunt thought that sounded remarkably like I don’t care. He grinned. Understandable that the boy would far rather be out with friends playing cricket, than choosing books with his mother and sister. His own boys had been the same.

      ‘Georgie, you had that stupid book last month!’

      ‘Harry.’ The mother’s voice remained quiet, but it held steel enough to wilt a grown man, let alone a young boy.

      ‘Well, she did, Mama.’ Brotherly contempt oozed. ‘Why can’t she choose a proper book if we have to come here? Fairy tales are only for babies.’

      ‘I’m not a—!’

      ‘Georgie. I haven’t noticed you choosing any book at all, Harry.’

      Mama’s clipped tones silenced the little girl and had Hunt wincing. The boy was dicing with death here.

      ‘I chose Mr... Mr Swift!’

      ‘No. I suggested it and you didn’t mind. That’s hardly choosing.’

      A moment’s sulky silence. ‘Well, I’d rather have a kite. Not a stupid library subscription.’

      ‘Harry—’

      ‘I know! Because she was sick and had the silly doctor and a lot of medicine, I can’t have a kite.’

      ‘It wasn’t my fault! You gave me the beastly cold!’

      ‘Yes, but I didn’t have the doctor, because I’m not a stupid girl! Ow!’

      ‘Georgie! Don’t hit your brother. You know he can’t hit back.’

      ‘Don’t care! He did give me the cold and I’m not stupid!’

      ‘Right.’

      At the sound of upheaval, Hunt turned to see the woman rise from the chair, setting the little girl down gently, despite her obvious ire. Her face scarlet as she met his amused and, he hoped, sympathetic smile, she gathered up several books and stalked to the shelves. His gaze focused on the slender figure, caught by the unconscious grace in her walk.

      ‘Mama?’

      ‘While I am replacing these you may both apologise to his lordship for disturbing his morning.’

      That jolted Hunt from a particularly improper fantasy about how the lady might move in another context. If she knew he was a lord, then he hadn’t been mistaken. He did know her and he certainly shouldn’t be fantasising about her.

      ‘I can’t have my fairy tales?’

      It was almost a wail from the little girl, but the boy turned to him, his face crimson, and nudged his sister.

      ‘What? It’s all your—oh.’ She shut up and looked at Hunt.

      ‘I’m very sorry, sir.’ She retained the merest lisp, utterly enchanting. Bright brown eyes, still with the glint of angry tears, gazed up at him out of a face framed with tawny curls and for a shattering moment he saw another small girl furious with an older brother.

      ‘I beg your pardon, sir.’ The boy was stiff with embarrassment.

      Hunt regarded the flushed pair and nodded. ‘Accepted. But—’ holding the boy’s gaze and keeping his face stern, he pointed to their mother’s rigid back as she replaced the books ‘—no gentleman behaves badly to his mother.’

      The boy bit his lip, but set his shoulders and went to his mother.

      ‘Mama? I’m sorry I was so rude. Please let Georgie have the fairy tales at least. It was my fault. I shouldn’t have teased her.’

      The mother turned and Hunt saw bone-deep weariness in her face. And something else he recognised: love, unshakeable love for the child. ‘No, you shouldn’t.’

      ‘I... I can go without pudding, too.’

      Her smile looked like it might turn upside down and Hunt was sharply aware of a longing to do something about that, to lift whatever burdens weighed her down. ‘I do have to fill you up with something. I’d rather you chose a book for yourself and promised to read it.’

      ‘Yes, Mama. I really am sorry.’

      She ruffled his hair, and gave a smile that made Hunt’s heart ache. ‘I know. Go on. Choose your book.’

      ‘Perhaps I might help there?’ The offer was out before Hunt even knew it was there.

      The mother stiffened. He saw it in the set of her slender shoulders, in the firm line of her mouth and his memory nudged harder, trying to get out.

      ‘That’s very kind, sir, but quite unnecessary.’

      Hunt gave up racking his brains. ‘This is most embarrassing, but I cannot recall your name, ma’am. We have met, have we not? I’m Huntercombe, you know.’

      ‘Yes, I know. I’m surprised you remember me, sir. It was years ago. Thank you for accepting their apology.’

      He smiled. ‘I think you were more bothered by them than I. Don’t give it another thought.’ So he did know her. Although from her clothes it was clear she did not move in society, nor was she eager to recall herself to him. She had avoided giving her name. Perhaps she had once been a governess. He would not have noticed a governess, but she might have remembered him if her charges had known his own children. He should not pry, but something about those expressive dark eyes held him, despite her obvious reluctance.

      The little girl, Georgie, came and slid her hand into her mother’s. ‘Were you a friend of Papa’s, sir?’

      He smiled at her. ‘We are not quite sure. Your mama and I were—’

      ‘He was Lord Peter Lacy,’ the child said. ‘I’m Georgiana Mary and that’s Harry.’

      ‘Georgie, sweetheart.’ Her mother took down the fairy tales again and handed them to her. ‘Take your book and sit down with it.’

      ‘Yes, Mama.’

      Lord Peter Lacy. He was a younger son of the Duke of Keswick. Hunt wasn’t quite sure which younger son; Keswick and his Duchess had been nothing if not prolific, although a couple of their sons had recently died. But Lord Peter had married in the teeth of his father’s disapproval and dropped out of society. He remembered hearing something, but he had been mired in grief at the time and hadn’t taken much notice. Just who had he married...? His memory finally obliged.

      ‘Lady Emma Lacy,’ he said. ‘Of course. Dersingham’s daughter.’ It vaguely came back. Lady Emma Brandon-Smythe she had been. Dersingham had been