Born to Scandal. Diane Gaston

Rolfe immediately crossed the room to greet them. ‘Lord Brentmore, it is a delight to have your company.’ He shook Brent’s hand. ‘Peter, it is always good to see you.’ He turned to two ladies who stood behind him. ‘Allow me to present you to my wife and daughter.’

      The wife was a pleasant-looking woman, the sort whose face just naturally smiled. She was soft spoken and gracious.

      The daughter had a quiet sort of beauty. Her hair was a nondescript brown, her eyes a pale blue, her features even. There was nothing to object to in her. Brent gave her credit for being remarkably composed in the face of being looked over by a marquess as if she were a bauble in some shop.

      ‘I am pleased to meet you, my lord.’ She had a pleasant voice, not musical, perhaps, but not grating. ‘Peter has told me so much about you.’

      He hoped Peter had told her everything. He’d learned the hard way it did not pay to assume she already knew. He’d assumed Eunice had known of his early life. After their marriage when she’d learned of it, she’d been shocked and appalled.

      ‘I am pleased to meet you as well, Miss Rolfe.’ He bowed.

      He ought to say something witty or charming, but he was not trying to impress. If this idea of Peter’s was to work, Miss Rolfe must know him as he was. There should be no illusions.

      They sipped sherry as they waited for dinner to be served. Conversation was pleasant and amiable. Brent liked that these people were very fond of his cousin and were as comfortable as they were in his presence. He was supposed to be the family’s salvation, after all, but they refrained from fawning over him and labouring to earn his regard.

      The dinner proceeded in like manner. He was seated next to Miss Rolfe, which gave him an opportunity to share conversation with her alone. She, too, retained her poise, although she did shoot occasional glances to Peter, for his encouragement or approval, Brent supposed.

      When dinner was done, Brent broke with the convention of the gentlemen remaining at the table for brandy and the ladies retiring to the drawing room.

      ‘May I speak with Miss Rolfe alone?’ he asked instead.

      ‘Of course,’ Lord Rolfe said.

      Miss Rolfe glanced at Peter before saying, ‘I would be delighted.’

      Brent and Miss Rolfe returned to the drawing room.

      She went to a cabinet and took out a decanter. ‘My lord, would you like a glass of brandy as we speak?’

      He was grateful. ‘I would indeed.’

      She poured his glass and settled herself on the sofa.

      He chose a chair facing her. ‘It is clear that Peter discussed this matter with you and your parents, as he did with me.’

      She lowered her eyes. ‘He did.’

      ‘I need to know your thoughts on this.’ She had to be fully on board with the scheme or he would not proceed.

      She raised her head and gave him a direct look. ‘It is a reality that I must marry well …’ She paused. ‘It is also a reality that my prospects to marry well are very slim. My dowry is very modest—’

      He put up a hand. ‘Money means nothing to me.’

      She smiled. ‘Actually, money means nothing to me, either. It is far more important to me to marry a good man.’ Her gaze faltered. ‘Peter—Peter assures me you are such a man.’

      He glanced away. ‘It is important to me that you realise precisely what you are agreeing to.’

      ‘Peter was quite forthright.’ Her expression turned serious. ‘I know about your Irish parentage and your wife’s infidelities. I also know that you keep your word and pay your creditors and fulfil your responsibilities to your tenants, your servants, and your country.’

      He felt his cheeks warming. ‘That is high praise.’

      She lowered her lashes. ‘It is what Peter told me.’

      All Brent truly did was what any decent man should do. It seemed no great thing to him.

      He changed the subject. ‘What of children?’

      Her cheeks turned pink. ‘Our children?’

      Lawd. He had not thought that far.

      ‘You shall, of course, have children, if you wish it.’ He could not contemplate bedding her, not at the moment. There was nothing about her to repulse, however. He could imagine becoming fond of her in time. ‘What I meant was your feelings about my children. Are you willing to take charge of them and rear them as your own?’

      Her hands fidgeted, twisting the fabric of her skirts. ‘If you think they would accept me in that role.’

      He had no idea. Sadly, his children were strangers to him.

      She spoke more confidently. ‘I am the eldest of five. I am certainly well used to the company of children. I would try my best for yours.’

      The words of his new governess came back to him—I would please you, my lord. I am certain I would—spoken with a passion Miss Rolfe lacked.

      Perhaps that was fortunate. Passion must not be a part of this decision.

      ‘Do you have any questions for me?’ he asked her.

      She tilted her head in thought. ‘I need your assurance that you will help my family, that you will help launch my brothers and sisters if my father is unable to do so. My father will repay you if he can—’

      He waved a hand. ‘I do not require repayment.’

      ‘He will desire to, none the less.’

      Brent had made enquiries about Lord Rolfe. His debts appeared to be honest ones—crop failures and such. His needs were a far cry from Eunice’s father’s incessant demands that Brent pay his gambling debts.

      Brent shrugged. ‘I am well able to assist your family in whatever way they require.’

      ‘That is all I need,’ she said, her voice low.

      He stood. ‘What I suggest, then, is that we see more of each other. To be certain this will suit us both. If you are free tomorrow, I will take you for a turn in Hyde Park.’

      She rose as well. ‘That would give me pleasure.’

      Brent ignored the sick feeling inside him and tried to sound cheerful. ‘Shall we seek out your parents? And let Peter know his scheme might very well bear fruit?’

      She blinked rapidly and he wondered if she was as comfortable with this idea as she let on.

      ‘Yes,’ she murmured. ‘Let us tell my parents … and Peter.’

      ‘We do not need a physician!’ Anna was beyond furious.

      Three weeks in her new position had also meant three weeks of battling Mrs Tippen, who seemed intent on keeping things exactly as her late marchioness had wanted them.

      ‘I have sent for him and that is that.’ Mrs Tippen gave her a triumphant glare. ‘We cannot have you endangering the children like this.’

      ‘Endangering!’ Anna glared back. ‘The boy was running. He fell and cut his chin on a rock. He has a cut, that is all!’

      ‘That is all you think,’ the housekeeper retorted. ‘You are not a physician.’

      ‘And you are not in charge of the children!’ Anna retorted.

      From all she’d heard this woman had never expressed concern when the children were kept virtual prisoners in the nursery, rarely going out of doors.

      Anna glared at her. ‘If you have something to say about them, you will say it to me. Is that clear?’

      Mrs Tippen remained unrepentant. ‘You may bet Lord Brentmore will