brains for something else to say. Her eye fell upon a portrait, somewhat badly placed in a shadowy corner—a younger version of the man at her side. He was in full military regalia, slim in his red dress coat, dark good looks and somewhat brooding expression captured perfectly, she thought.
‘Were you long in the army, my lord?’ she asked lightly.
His eyes moved to the painting, and a furrow appeared between his brows. ‘Eleven years, until my discharge last year.’
‘You were in the war in America for its duration?’
‘I was.’ Angling his body away from her, he gestured to the opposite wall. ‘My parents.’
Grateful to be diverted from a subject she was never comfortable with, Lily turned to feign admiration at yet another painting—and found herself transfixed.
Large and in pride of place, mid-gallery, in an ornate gilt frame, it was a likeness of a handsome raven-haired gentleman and his wife, slender and beautiful, her reddish-brown hair curling in tendrils about her face.
‘They look so happy,’ she murmured, smiling up at the work as she forgot to feel awkward for a moment; it was so well done, and the people in it looked so lively and yet at ease, as if they needed nothing but each other.
He followed her gaze. ‘It was done shortly after they were married.’
‘And this one?’
The next painting along was the same man as before, she was sure, years older, hair grey now, but with the same kind expression and distinguished good looks. ‘Your father again?’
‘Yes,’ he said shortly.
There was something in his voice that made her turn, but his countenance was as smooth as ever, giving no clue as to what lay beneath.
‘You’re like him,’ she said, without thinking. For though the dark eyes in the picture were very different to the blue-grey ones watching her now, there was a likeness around the mouth, and the same inscrutability of expression.
He gave a derisive grunt. ‘The similarities between us were slight, I assure you.’
Lily hid a smile. ‘I meant merely to suggest you resemble him physically, my lord.’ For, in truth, there was precious little of his surly son in the face of the man in the painting before her.
Major Westhaven glanced at her, seemed to guess her meaning, and frowned.
‘Obviously, I can never hope to be the man he was.’
Lily raised her eyebrows. ‘Well. We all have our faults, Major.’
His jaw tightened. ‘Indeed we do, Miss Pevensey.’ There was a brief, loaded silence. Then he said, ‘Tea, I think.’
She smiled, equally tightly. ‘Lovely.’
They continued their progress, slowly, Lily feigning absorption in the many works of art displayed on his walls—the Major giving her time to admire his ancestors, but commenting on no other paintings.
By the time they had passed through the large double doors into a well-appointed sitting room adjoining the gallery, another uncomfortable silence had descended. Kitty, bringing up the rear, looked quizzically at Lily when the Major’s back was turned and received a frown for her trouble.
The ancient butler entered with the tea as Major Westhaven ushered them to their seats, courteous but still silent. Remembering with an inward sigh that she was supposed to be making an effort to like him, Lily determined to try lightening the atmosphere. ‘Your home is beautiful,’ she said, turning once more to look into the long gallery behind them.
His gaze was dispassionate. ‘Lately I have come to prefer the convenience of my house in town.’
‘And where is that?’ she asked, hearing the obvious forced cheer in her own attempts at polite small talk.
He shot her a look, as if he had heard this thought also. ‘Brook Street.’
‘Oh. Lovely.’
‘It’s convenient for my club,’ he said.
‘Mmm.’ Lily, usually so engaging in any social situation, could think of nothing else to say. Kitty, at her side with her hands demurely in her lap, appeared to have been struck dumb for the first time in her life, providing no assistance at all. Gratefully, Lily smiled at the butler as he placed a teapot, cups and a plate of dainty cakes on the table between them, welcoming the distraction.
‘Shall I pour, my lord?’ she asked.
He inclined his head.
Not allowing herself to be irritated, she forced a smile, pouring tea for all of them. Carefully, she picked up his teacup, proffering it at the same time as he put out a hand to take it; the collision rocked the dainty cup and tea slopped into the saucer.
Immediately his hands were under it, steadying the saucer, his long fingers against and between hers, his thumb grazing her knuckles.
An odd jolt went through Lily at his touch, both a heat where his flesh brushed hers, and another shot of warmer, tingling something deep inside—so that for a moment she could do nothing but stare at him, as they held up the teacup together.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, feeling herself flush, lost in his smoky blue-grey gaze.
‘Allow me,’ he said, smoothly enough. He took the cup and placed it at his elbow, adding a lump of sugar and stirring his tea as though nothing had transpired, but she did not miss the slight hint of an undercurrent in his tone, nor the small sardonic lift at the corner of his mouth.
Lily gritted her teeth—now he would think she was so mindless that she could not do a simple thing like pouring tea! Immediately, her brow furrowed at this unexpected inner lament. She did not care what he thought. That was why she was here, making small talk, was it not? To prove that he could be as unpleasant as he liked and it would not stir her?
She passed Kitty a cup of tea and, thoroughly disconcerted, tried to remember where they had been in the conversation. He lived in Brook Street…it was convenient for his club…
‘Do you truly prefer town?’ she asked, trying to sound nonchalant. ‘It must be so nice to get away from the noise and smoke every now and then. To shoot…and such like.’
He looked at her impassively. ‘I am not fond of shooting.’
‘Well…’ She resisted the urge to ask him if he was always so difficult. ‘To relax, then. The countryside has a wonderful tonic effect, I find.’
Now he just looked bored. ‘To be honest, Miss Pevensey,’ he drawled, ‘I am in half a mind to sell the place.’
There was a clatter from the doorway behind them as the butler all but dropped the tray of sandwiches he was bearing.
Major Westhaven looked up, brows drawing together in irritation. ‘For God’s sake, man, have a care!’ He turned back to Lily, stony faced.
She, further taken aback by the aggressive way he spoke to his servant, tried all the harder to smooth things over. ‘I had understood you spent almost all your time here this last year, my lord.’
He nodded tersely. ‘Precisely why I am starting to tire of the place. Perhaps it is time for change.’
The butler, unloading his tray, was shaking his head. ‘If your father could hear you now,’ he muttered.
Lily, astonished, turned to look at him. Though still upright and slim of build, the man must be approaching seventy. In the grand houses she had visited before, the servants would never have dreamed of interrupting in such a fashion.
‘When I am in need of a lesson on family history, John, I will ask for one.’ The Major’s voice was low-pitched and even, but Lily sensed a clear undercurrent of carefully suppressed anger.
‘I very much doubt that.’
She