her face, hoping to catch his attention. It worked. He glanced at her and she gave him a level stare. She did not look away, but simply maintained the gaze.
His eyebrows flew upwards, then he flushed slightly and broke the contact. But he did not say whatever it was he had been preparing.
Marianne returned to her own meal, feeling that she had at least prevented all-out war at dinner.
* * *
What a managing, impudent young woman! Ash was thinking. How dare she presume to check my behaviour!
He had no doubt that was what Miss Bolton intended. The level stare she had sent him had left him in no doubt as to her meaning. He was to bite back his retort and allow Fanny to continue to play the injured widow.
Well, it will not do!
He no more wanted to be here than Fanny wanted him here. He had never asked to be Earl. John’s father and his own papa had been twin brothers, and his father had constantly talked of the lucky chance of being the younger son.
‘Just think!’ Papa used to say. ‘If I had been born just twenty minutes earlier my life would have been made a prison by the responsibilities of the Earldom! It would have been farms and quarter-days and conscientiousness, with no time to enjoy my life.’
He had instilled in Ash an abhorrence of responsibility, convincing him as a boy that John’s life would be unending dreariness and care. Ash had maintained that conviction, and even now was wary of anything that smacked of responsibility. He relied on himself and nobody depended on him. He was free to come and go as he pleased, and he liked it that way. What was more, he was determined to ensure that the Earldom would not trap him into conventionality or duty.
He might be Earl in name, but he was damned if he would be sucked into spending his time here, in this run-down, isolated house!
Only his obligation to John had ensured Ash’s temporary return. That and the knowledge that if he absented himself or passed responsibility to Fanny the place would be bankrupt within six months.
He had gone through John’s financial affairs with the lawyer, and had seen enough to know that with care and attention and some of his own money he should be able to restore the accounts to good health in a year or two. Only John’s illness—and his inability to manage his affairs as a result—had led to the downturn in fortunes. Wages had not been paid, good staff had left, and everything had gone downhill from there.
Ash had been busy in London these past two days. His valet and coachman were to follow him here tomorrow with his trunks, and he had charged his secretary with finding a good steward. He had found time to visit his closest friends to explain that he would likely be absent for a while. Most of them had thought it a great joke.
‘But, Ash!’ one had said, punching him light-heartedly on the arm. ‘You have never had any cares! I give it a month, then you will tire of this diversion!’
‘I only wish that were true, Barny,’ he had replied, somewhat sadly. ‘But I cannot see a month being long enough to fix this dashed mess!’
Barny had been right about one thing, though. Ash had indeed never carried any responsibility. Nor had he ever wished to. He was blessed with a decent fortune from his mother’s family, which enabled him to live comfortably as a single man. He rented a house near Grosvenor Square, overpaid his servants to ensure he would avoid the inconvenience of hiring and training new ones, and spent his life entirely at his own leisure.
He was at no one’s beck and call, he had no ties and he liked it that way. Responsibility meant limits and not being in charge of one’s own course.
Wistfully, he reflected that if not for John and this confounded mess he would be at White’s right now, enjoying good company and fine wine. Instead of which—
‘We shall retire to the parlour and leave you to your port.’
Belatedly he realised the table had been cleared and the three ladies were departing. Rising swiftly, he nodded politely, then sank back into his chair with relief when they had gone.
Although a favourite with the ladies—one of his tasks in London yesterday had been to bid farewell to the dashing high-flyer whose company he had been enjoying for nigh on two months—he was nevertheless unused to domesticity, families and, frankly, histrionics. His life was normally calm, devoid of drama and well-organised. And he liked it that way.
His mama had died when he was young, leaving her entire fortune in trust for Ash, and when he’d come home from school and university he and Papa would enjoy good food, fine wine and a wide range of male sports. Ash was a skilled horseman, boxer and fencer, and Papa had ensured he had access to all the best clubs.
And always, always, Papa had ribbed his brother, the Third Earl, teasing him about his dullness and domesticity.
John, Ash knew, had been raised from babyhood to be the next Earl Kingswood, and had taken his responsibilities seriously even in childhood. He would obediently leave Ash playing in the woods or fishing to go off with his father and his father’s steward to inspect a broken bridge or visit a tenant farmer, leaving Ash perplexed at John’s dutiful compliance.
Ash had a sneaking suspicion that he would not be up to filling John’s shoes, and that thought scared the hell out of him.
There! He had admitted it.
Remembering that there was no manservant to appear with the alcohol that he suddenly craved, Ash rose and began searching in the rosewood sideboard. Success! Two bottles of port and some dusty glasses. Blowing into a glass to clear the worst of the dust, he then wiped it with his kerchief and filled it with port.
Lifting the glass, he made a toast to his cousin, then sampled the ruby-red liquid.
Not bad, he thought. A pity you aren’t here to share it with me, John.
Not for the first time he thought with regret on the distance between himself and John since his cousin’s marriage. If they had been closer perhaps he could have helped during these last months—prevented John’s home from deteriorating, his financial affairs from spiralling downwards and his family from becoming distressed. Perhaps he could have learned a little about what he was supposed to do.
And you are still adding to his family’s distress, a small voice in his head reminded him.
He sighed. He knew it. Somehow, though, when Fanny was being Fanny his reason went out the window and it seemed he became eighteen again.
Fanny had always been impractical, he recalled. Of course his eighteen-year-old self had not seen further than her deep blue eyes and blonde curls. Like John, he had become completely infatuated with Fanny when she and her family had moved to the district. Spending the summer at Ledbury House that year had been ecstasy, agony and ultimately a severe lesson. For of course she had chosen John.
And he and John had fallen out over it.
They had both said words intended to hurt the other and, stupidly, had never put it right. Ash had attended their wedding—as John’s cousin he had been obliged to—but afterwards had avoided him. At the time Ash had not been able to bear to see John and Fanny together. In his youthful mind he had thought that what he was experiencing was heartbreak, and the only way to recover was to cut Fanny out of his life—which had meant it was easier not to make the effort to repair his relationship with John.
Somehow years had gone by, and then had come the message that John had died, following a long illness.
His thoughts drifted back towards Fanny again. How did he feel about her now? Despite the momentary echo of his former infatuation when he had first encountered her in the library, it was clear that now he saw her differently. She was an attractive woman, certainly, and yet neither his heart nor his loins showed any interest in her. In fact, his predominant mood when he found himself in Fanny’s company was one of irritation.
And she had known it—had seen straight through him. The governess—Miss