Lord Stanton's Last Mistress. Lara Temple

which is through those doors. Other than that you are welcome here.’

      He wondered what on earth he was doing, trying to make her comfortable when the last thing he wanted was to have his privacy invaded any more than absolutely necessary. As they watched, the group in the garden turned on to the lake path.

      ‘Well, you have just earned another half hour. My aunt is probably taking them to see what remains of the water lilies on the lake. So, what are you reading? Won’t you sit down?’

      Embarrassment was often very useful. Now that he was overcoming his initial discomfort he resolved to make the most of hers. People revealed more when off balance and he wanted to know what he was dealing with here. He indicated the window seat again, using his superior height to press her back. She sat down but her eyes narrowed at the manoeuvre. She was a peculiar combination—her expression was cool and calm, but something in the blue depths contradicted that assessment. He stepped back and pulled over a chair, suddenly noticing she held Bruce’s Travels to Discover the Source of the Nile. The veiled nurse had had a preference for agony columns, he remembered.

      ‘This is a rather unusual choice of reading material. There are shelves of novels in my sisters’ parlour next to the conservatory, you know.’

      ‘I love novels, sometimes I think they are the anchors of my sanity. But I love tales by people who have seen the world and been stretched to their limits. I hadn’t even realised how much time had gone by.’

      Her face had descended into a serious look, but then another smile dispelled it almost immediately. It was like light reflecting off conflicting currents in a lake, confusing hints of forces at work beneath the surface, shifting as soon as the eyes settled on them. Once again his concentration shattered, but the certainty that had struck him when she had first spoken was fading. Her voice was already her own and he couldn’t for the life of him remember if it resembled that young woman of six years ago or whether it had been a trick of his own memory. Perhaps he should just ask her...what? Were you the girl who saved my life? Remember? I’m the idiot who made a fool of himself and asked you to run off with me?

      ‘That has effectively stifled all conversational gambits, hasn’t it?’ she said into the silence, the amused self-mockery in her deep voice rousing him from another round of uncharacteristic stupor. He shook his head, trying to keep to the surface of the conversation. It should have been easy, but he felt himself struggling to find the anchor of polite patter that was second nature to him and usually took up no more than a tenth of his mental effort while the rest of his mind was engaged on more momentous matters.

      ‘Does the Princess share your interest in tales of adventure?’

      ‘No, she is much saner than I. We are currently reading Mrs Carmichael’s Hidden Heart. But you wouldn’t like her.’

      ‘Why wouldn’t I?’ he asked. But his hope that the conviction in her statement might indicate an admission of familiarity faded with her next words.

      ‘Most men despise novels, don’t they?’

      ‘Just as most women love them? Isn’t that simplistic? I have very little time for fiction, unfortunately, but with two sisters I have been exposed to more novels than I can remember and I certainly don’t despise them. Hers haven’t come my way, though. Are they any good?’

      ‘I like them; they are almost as good as my dreams.’ Her words ended on a little surprised sound as if she had remembered something or merely realised that she was being a tad too honest. She stood up abruptly and handed him the book.

      ‘Thank you for the use of the library and your book.’

      He stood up as well, taking the book automatically. Between his bulk and the chair he knew he was impeding her exit, but he wasn’t quite ready to conclude this conversation.

      ‘Formally it is my father’s library. Why are you convinced it is not his book as well?’

      She had to look up at him, her head tilted back, accentuating a very stubborn chin. Then she smiled again.

      ‘I guessed,’ she said simply and slid past him in the manner of a child slipping past a strict parent and he found himself turning as if he could capture her scent as she passed.

      This time it was his memory that took precedence, just a flash, a moment from when he had still been caught in the fever of the wound, perhaps the first time he had really been conscious of her, or of her scent. He hadn’t thought of it since, but the memory had somehow remained—like a soap bubble that had formed years ago about the girl’s essence and had only now burst. Wildflowers deep in the woods. At his desk he placed the book on the blotting pad and smoothed unseen wrinkles on the leather binding. It was warm and supple, as leather is after being handled, not surprising if she had been curled up with it in that sunny corner.

      Almost as good as my dreams... What a strange thing to say, whether she was that veiled nurse or not. What on earth would she have done if he had asked her to describe those dreams? She might be peculiar, but that would probably have stymied even her. Possibly. Maybe not.

      He pushed the book to the edge of the desk. He had work to do before he had to play host to his problematic guests. Whatever she was made no odds. He had a task to complete and that was the sum of his interest in the King’s affairs or employees.

      Damn Oswald.