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he felt renewed annoyance.

      “I don’t carry any burden except those the Lord gives me, and that usually has to do with people you don’t know nor will ever chance to know.”

      He said nothing but sat beating a tattoo against his pant leg, awaiting the reason of her visit. Was she going to ask for some donation for her charitable work? Hadn’t Father already been more than generous in his settlement on her?

      “Your father sent a note letting me know of your return.”

      “Our father, don’t you mean? Isn’t that what he wants you to call him? As well as take your rightful place among us and let the world know your true parentage now that Mother is gone?”

      She swallowed and looked down at her clasped hands. “I’m sorry, Tertius. I have no desire to hurt either you or your mother’s memory. I usually still refer to Father as my guardian. I still think of him in that way,” she added with a small smile.

      “How nice of you to consider my mother’s sensibilities,” he sneered.

      She ignored the gibe and instead asked, “Did you have a good journey back?”

      “The seas were calm for the most part,” he replied, a part of him regretting his lack of manners. What was the matter with him? It wasn’t Althea’s fault who her parents were. But he’d never been able to stop blaming her for having been so blatantly thrust under his mother’s nose. The late marchioness had been forced to endure the presence of a child who so clearly was not a “ward,” but the result of one of her husband’s many indiscretions.

      “Father said you had been ill, and that’s why you couldn’t come any sooner,” Althea continued.

      “Yes, that is so. But I’m fully recovered now.”

      “I’m glad. You—you look thin,” she said in the soft, hesitant tone that never failed to irk him.

      He shrugged. “So everyone tells me.” He made a point of pulling out his watch and snapping it open, wanting above anything for this interview to be over. He felt out of sorts and ill-humored. It was the poor night he’d had that was making him behave so surly.

      “I didn’t mean to interrupt you at your work,” she said at once. “I merely wanted to welcome you back and tell you how sorry I was about Edmund.”

      He felt another twinge of guilt at his incivility. He was quite some years older than she—at least a decade—so he hadn’t had much contact with her growing up. But whenever he’d come home from school, he’d catch glimpses of her. His father seemed to keep her well hidden on the large estate.

      She’d always been cowering behind somebody’s apron, usually a housekeeper’s or servant’s, those shy eyes looking out at him, a thumb stuck in her mouth.

      He studied her critically. Her black dress with its narrow white ruffle high at the neck made her look older than her twenty-three or twenty-four years.

      “How old are you now, Althea?” he asked abruptly.

      She looked surprised at the question. “Twenty-four,” she answered softly.

      Tertius hated that diffidence. It had always annoyed him and brought out the worst in him. “You look older,” he lied. In truth, she still looked young; it was her clothing and hairstyle that added years.

      She didn’t seem affected by the implied insult. He preferred a more spirited person. An image of Lady Gillian rushing to save a stray flashed through his mind. Her passionate defense of the mangy mutt stirred something in him like nothing else had in a long time.

      “You look older than I remember,” she said with a gentle smile. “You were a dashing young man of five-and-twenty when you left, and I was an awkward girl of fourteen, fearfully in awe of you and Edmund both.”

      “I hardly remember you,” he replied, unable to stop his digs.

      “I doubt you would. You were a young gentleman about town and I was away at school by then.”

      She stood and began retying her bonnet. He stood as well and waited for her to put her gloves back on.

      He didn’t thank her for coming. The words stuck in his throat. No matter how much his rational mind told him to treat her with courtesy, his gestures wouldn’t follow suit.

      “I’ll show you out,” he said.

      “There’s no need to accompany me. I’ll see myself out.”

      “As you wish.” He accompanied her only to the door of the office, where the two stood a moment.

      Her clear gray eyes regarded him. He read compassion in them, and he wanted to tell her he didn’t need her pity. Who was she—a poor, penniless, illegitimate half sister—to pity him?

      Why then did he feel she had something to offer him? That she knew something of his fear and near panic of the night before? Of his feelings of inadequacy in filling Edmund’s shoes?

      “Tertius,” she began.

      “What is it?” he asked, not bothering to hide the impatience in his tone.

      She reached a hand out to him but let it drop before touching him, and he realized he had braced himself for the contact. “I also wanted to…to let you know, if you ever need anything, you can come to me. You don’t seem fully recovered. I hope your new responsibilities won’t be too much of a strain—”

      “You don’t think me capable of assuming the duties of the new Earl of Skylar?” he asked, and then could have kicked himself for revealing his own weakness. It was the fault of that soft, sympathetic tone of hers.

      “Of course I do! But as I said, you’ve been ill. Take it slowly and don’t let the opinions of others control you.”

      He regained his calm tone. “My dear sister, your solicitude overwhelms me. However, you needn’t concern yourself. I am perfectly capable of managing my affairs. And as I told you, I am completely recovered.”

      She merely nodded. “You needn’t treat me as a sister if you’d rather not. I understand. Just think of me as a trusted childhood friend who would do anything in her power to help you if you should ever need me.”

      She no longer struck him as a timorous inferior. Her tone had gained strength, as if she were supremely confident of her ability to help him.

      What could she possibly help him with? “Thank you, dear Althea,” he replied, managing a thin smile. “I shall remember that whenever I am in need.”

      She looked down, as if disappointed but not surprised at the condescension in his tone. “Goodbye then. I always pray for you.”

      “I’m sure you have many more deserving souls worthy of your petitions.”

      She made no reply as she exited the door. He shut it behind her and returned to his desk, but found it hard to resume his work. Drat her intrusion!

      He didn’t want to have the past tormenting him. He’d achieved an emotional distance from his father and was certainly not going to let a half sibling he hardly saw, let alone hardly knew, upset the careful balance.

      He was on the threshold of beginning something new. He would prove to society that he was fully capable of filling his brother’s shoes. With a lovely young wife at his side, and offspring soon to follow, there was absolutely nothing he need fear.

      A few afternoons later Gillian entered the drawing room for tea. Once again she found Lord Skylar calmly seated with her mother and Templeton, one of her mother’s fine Sevres cups and saucers balanced upon his knee.

      “Yes,” he told them, “she is of a very old pedigree, a direct descendant of a spaniel of my great-grandfather’s on our Hertfordshire estate. She’ll make a great companion for Lady Gillian.” He reached down to stroke the dog’s neck. “A very docile creature, I assure you.”

      Gillian

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