LITMIR.BIZ

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nodded.

      ‘Ridiculous.’ He leaned his head against the chair back and closed his eyes as if gathering strength. ‘I am old. I need to know that my affairs are in order. Simon has kindly offered to alleviate me of one of my worries. It is the perfect solution. You do not have to get along, you just have to do your duty and give him a son. Surely you would like a house and children of your own, would you not?’

      A dream for most normal women, the image sent a chill down her spine. ‘No.’

      ‘There is no alternative.’

      ‘I can s-support myself.’

      His bushy eyebrows shot up and he opened his eyes. ‘How? Good God, you can scarcely string two words together.’

      Heat rushed up to her hairline. Anger. ‘I d-draw. Art.’ Even as she said the words, she knew her mistake.

      His face darkened. He sat up straight. ‘What respectable woman earns money from daubing?’ He made it sound like she had proposed selling her body.

      ‘I’m not r-respectable.’

      He narrowed his eyes. ‘You have been brought up to be respectable. You will not bring shame on this family.’

      Like your mother. Like the Wynchwood Whore. He didn’t say it, but she could see he was thinking it by the tight set to his mouth and the jut of his jaw.

      Dare she tell him about the drawings she’d already sold? Prove she could manage by herself? The money she earned would give her an independence. Barely. What if he prevented her from completing the last pictures of the series? It would void her contract, a contract she’d signed pretending to be a man. She sealed the words behind her firmly closed lips. Not that he ever let her finish a sentence.

      ‘And another thing,’ he said. ‘No more excursions on Pippin. There is too much to do around this house.’

      She stared at him. ‘W-what things?’

      ‘Simon is bringing guests for the ball. There will be hunting, entertainments, things like that to arrange. I will need your help.’

      Horror rose up like a lump in her throat. ‘G-guests?’

      ‘Yes. The ball will also serve as your come out.’

      A rush of blood to her head made her feel dizzy. ‘A come out?’

      Mortimer tugged his shawl closer about his shoulders. ‘Don’t look surprised. Anyone would think this family treated you badly. It is high time you entered society if you are going to be Simon’s wife. We can hope no one remembers your mother any more.’

      ‘I d-d-d—’

      Mortimer thumped the arm of his chair with a clenched fist. ‘Enough,’ he yelled. He lowered his voice. ‘Damn it. Any other girl your age would be in alt at so generous an offer. Make an effort, girl. Why, you are practically on the shelf.’

      ‘I w-w-w—’

      ‘Will.’

      Breathe in. Breathe out. ‘Won’t. I don’t want a husband.’ A husband would ruin all her hopes for the future.

      The red in Mortimer’s face darkened to puce and his ears flushed vermilion. He reminded her of an angry sunset, the kind that heralded a storm. His bushy grey brows drew together over his pitted nose. ‘I am the head of this family and I say you will obey me or face the consequences.’

      Did he think she feared a diet of bread and water or isolation in her room? ‘I—’

      ‘No more arguments, Frederica. It is decided. I have only your best interests in mind. I have clearly allowed you far too much liberty if your head is full of such nonsense. Art, indeed. Where did you ever get such a notion?’

      ‘I…’ Oh, what was the point? She didn’t really know where the notion came from anyway.

      ‘What you need to do, girl, is learn to make yourself useful. Find my glasses. I know I had them here earlier.’ He poked around in the folds of his robe.

      Frederica stifled a sigh. ‘Uncle.’

      He looked up. She pointed to her nose and he put a hand up to his face. ‘Ah. There they are. Now run along and prepare for our guests. Hurry up before you add a headache to my ills.’

      Mortimer pressed one gnarled hand against his poultice and closed his eyes. ‘Ask Snively for more hot water on your way out.’

      Dismissed, Frederica lowered her gaze and dropped a respectful curtsy. ‘Yes, Uncle.’

      She turned and left swiftly, before he found some other task for her to do. It was no good fighting the stubborn man head on. And Snively was right, he was unusually crotchety. And this idea of his to marry her to Simon was strange to say the least. He’d never expressed a jot of interest in her future before. Perhaps age was catching up to him.

      As she headed for the butler’s pantry to deliver her message, her mind twisted and turned, seeking an escape. She would not marry a man she despised as much as he scorned her.

      Simon was the key, she realised. He would never agree to this scheme.

      And to top it all off, she was to attend a ball? With strangers, people who might know of her mother. People who would expect her to make conversation. And dance. Never once had she danced in public. She’d probably fall flat on her face.

      For a moment, she wasn’t sure which was worse: the thought of marriage or the thought of a room full of strangers.

      A shudder ran down her spine. Of the two, it had to be Simon. Simon didn’t have a soul. He’d crush hers with his inanity.

      Robert shouldered his shotgun, the brace of hares dangling from its muzzle. Fresh meat for dinner. His mouth watered.

      He strode down Gallows Hill, mud heavy on his boots, the countryside unfolding in mist-draped valleys and leafless tree-crested hills. The late-afternoon air chilled the back of his throat and reached frigid fingers smelling of decayed vegetation into his lungs.

      On the hill behind him, the rooks were settling back among the treetops with harsh cries. He whistled blithely, unusually content at the prospect of stew instead of bread and cheese, or the rations of salt beef provided by his employer.

      Perhaps he’d request a recipe for dumplings from Wynchwood’s cook next time he arrived in her kitchen with a plump pheasant for his lordship’s dinner. A wry smile twisted his lips. How the mighty were fallen.

      A sudden sense of loss made his stomach fall away.

      The whistle died on his lips. Damn it. He would not sink into self-pity. Live for the moment and plan for the future must be his motto or he would go mad.

      He slogged on down the hill, unable to recapture his lighter mood. At the bottom, he took the overgrown track alongside the river, pushing aside brambles and scuffing through damp leaves. Without vegetables his stew would be a sorry affair. Perhaps instead of going up to the house in the morning for a list of the cook’s requirements from the local village, he’d go now. She might have some vegetables to spare.

      The trees thinned at the edge of the clearing. Stew. He could almost smell it.

      Robert stopped short at the sight of a hunched figure perched on an old stump a little way from his cottage, her brown bonnet and brown wool cloak blending into the carpet of withered beech leaves. He knew her at once, even though she had her back to him and her head bowed over something on her lap. Miss Bracewell.

      Hades. It seemed she’d taken him up on his invitation to return whenever she liked.

      He inhaled a slow breath. This time he would not scare her. This time he would be polite. Polite and, damn it, suitably humble, since no word had come back to him about yesterday’s disastrous encounter.

      He’d not had the courage to ask Weatherby about her either. If something had been said, he didn’t

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