Family In The Making. Jo Ann Brown

shocked how a wisp of a smile could send another beat of a sweet sensation through her.

      “Good.”

      She waited for him to say more, but he was silent. Was he waiting for her to speak or move away? Uncertain, she blurted out the first thing that came into her mind. “Next time I need something on a high shelf, I will ask for help.”

      “Good.”

      She wished she could be as calm as he was. Her knees trembled with the residue of her fear. The memories that usually only haunted her in her nightmares had surged forward the moment he had touched her.

      Or was it something other than serenity that kept his answers short? The household maids had warned her that the viscount seldom spoke to anyone other than his family or the upper servants. Some believed he was arrogant; others more graciously suggested he might be so busy with his many tasks that he was lost in his thoughts and did not notice anyone around him. A few whispered that he simply was shy.

      When Lord Trelawney strode over broken crates and crockery toward the kitchen door, Maris remained where she was. She was not sure which opinion was correct. He had spoken to her. However, he said only as much as necessary. He had come to her rescue, but Lord Litchfield had acted caring, too, before he had forced himself on her. She once had prided herself on being a good judge of character. She had been a fool when she let herself trust Lord Litchfield instead of making sure she was never alone with him. She was no longer that naive girl, and she would not be want-witted with another man, whether he be a gentleman of the ton or a lowly laborer. Before coming to Cornwall, she had chosen the most unflattering clothes and hairstyle. No man in Porthlowen had given her a second look, just as she wished.

      But Lord Trelawney had given her a second look...as Lord Litchfield had. She did not want to think of what could happen, but she must be careful. Unlike with Lord Litchfield, warmth had bubbled within her when the earl’s heir smiled at her. Letting her thoughts wander in that direction could ruin her as surely as Lord Litchfield had vowed to do.

      She knew better than to trust any man. She must make sure she could always trust herself.

      * * *

      “And I assume you will be prepared to announce your plans to marry her before Christmas.”

      Arthur Trelawney, heir to the Earl of Launceston, fisted his hands behind his back as he listened to his father. He wondered if the whole world had gone mad. What other explanation was there for his father’s plan for his older son’s future? Maybe one of those boxes had fallen on Arthur’s skull in the stillroom. He had thought his only wound was a small cut on his nape where a china shard had struck him while he tried to protect Miss Oliver. He should have moved out of the way, but had kept his face pressed to her golden hair, which was laced with the faint scent of jasmine.

      By all that’s blue! He should not be letting his mind wander to the pretty nurse. And she was a delight for the eyes, something he had not noticed until they stood close. The few times their paths had crossed before, she had hurried in the opposite direction as if hounds were at her heels. His impression had been of her gray gown and tightly bound hair.

      No, he had no time to think of that. Instead, he concentrated on his father. All his life, he had admired the Earl of Launceston, who handled the most dire emergency with a cool head. Even when Father’s health began to trouble him, condemning him to pain-filled days and sleepless nights, he had accepted God’s will without railing or rancor.

      But now...

      “Pardon me,” Arthur said, struggling to keep his voice even. He needed to emulate his father and deal with this unexpected situation with aplomb and solicitude.

      As Father had always done, until this outrageous conversation.

      “Yes, son? Do you have a question?”

      He had a thousand questions, but the foremost one was why his father was acting bizarrely. Instead of blurting that out, Arthur said, “Forgive me, but this is abrupt. When you asked me to come here, I did not expect you to make such a request.”

      His father leaned back in his favorite chair in his favorite room. The smoking room’s windows provided a view of the garden and the moors beyond it. Paintings of horses, some life-size, and hunt scenes were interspersed on the walls along with swords and antiquated pistols. It was a man’s room where women were seldom welcome.

      “You are my heir,” Father said, “and it is high time you have an heir of your own.”

      “But—”

      He did not let Arthur finish. Or even begin. “Lady Gwendolyn Cranford is the daughter of my oldest friend.”

      “Gwendolyn?” That was not a name he had thought to hear during this conversation. Perhaps there was more to his father’s request than he had guessed. Or his father truly knew. He must proceed with care. He decided the best course would be to act as if his late best friend’s wife’s name had not set him on alert. “Yes, of course I realize her father is Lord Monkstone, your friend since you were in school together. That does not explain your request.”

      “Since his daughter was widowed by that heinous attack on her husband by a low highwayman, and left with two young children, Monkstone has fretted about her future. As I have about your future, son, and the future of our family’s line. How better to ease our disquiet than solving both with a single offer of marriage?”

      It took all of Arthur’s willpower not to retort that he believed Louis Cranford’s murder had not been a bungled robbery. Someone must have made it appear so, because Cranny, as Arthur thought of him, could have easily fought off a highwayman. His death was murder, and Arthur had futilely sought that cur for more than a year.

      “I have not spoken with Lady Gwendolyn since the funeral.” Lord, help me keep from lying. Guide me in choosing words that are truth-filled, but allow me to conceal the truth that could endanger my family.

      Arthur had also spent the past year fulfilling Cranny’s duties as a secret courier for the government. No one but Cranny’s wife knew of his work passing along information from the Continent and the war against Napoleon. She had asked Arthur at her husband’s funeral to take over the task of conveying coded messages across Cornwall. He had agreed, and so far his family was none the wiser. He explained his absences by saying he was checking the tenant farms on the estate. And he did so, because he refused to lie, but those visits were the perfect cover for his other activities.

      He had hated lying and liars since Diana Mayfield made a chucklehead of him by feeding him such a banquet of falsehoods that he had fallen deeply in love with her. He was ready to ask her to be his wife when he had learned how she was making a fool of him. She had left without looking back and found herself another gullible sap, who did not care that she had a bevy of lovers. After that, he could not help seeing how many aspects of the courting rituals were based on half-truths. He had withdrawn from such games and gained a reputation of being either shy or arrogant because he kept to himself.

      “Lady Gwendolyn is lovely,” the earl went on, drawing Arthur back to the conversation, “and she has a placid disposition.”

      “I am aware of that.”

      “Yes, I thought you might be.” Father held up a folded page sealed with dark blue wax. “This arrived for you today. You and Lady Gwendolyn have been writing to each other often. I suspect Monkstone has taken note, and he contacted me about a match between his daughter and you.”

      Arthur reached out to take the note, wincing as the simple motion stung his nape where he was cut. He refrained from snatching the page, tearing it open and reading its contents, which would be in the code Gwendolyn used when communicating with him. She was his primary contact, and he always received his orders through her. Instead, he thanked his father, as if the page were of the least importance.

      “Monkstone assures me,” Father said, “that his daughter is an accomplished hostess and her needlework is exquisite.”

      Arthur might have laughed if the situation were different. He doubted many