Piers drained his coffee to the bitter dregs. “Oh?”
“They went to Spindle Cove.”
“Spindle Cove. Why does that sound familiar?”
“Before her marriage, Lady Christian Pierce spent some time there, as well.”
“Violet? You’re right. That is interesting.” As Piers recalled, the couple were now stationed in the south of France.
“Quite the little village, Spindle Cove. Established by the daughter of Sir Lewis Finch as a haven for unconventional women. The young ladies follow a strict schedule: Mondays, country walks. Tuesdays, sea bathing. Wednesdays in the garden, Thurs—”
“Really, I don’t require every detail,” Piers said, impatient. “Let’s return to the Highwoods. Has she any connections?”
“Good news, bad news there.”
“The bad first, please.”
“The eldest sister married the local blacksmith.”
Piers shook his head. “I can’t believe her mother allowed that. She must not have had a choice.”
“The good: The middle sister eloped with a viscount.”
“Yes, Charlotte mentioned that. Which viscount, again?”
There was a knock at the door. When Ridley opened it, the butler stood in the corridor.
He announced, “The Viscount Payne to see you, my lord.”
Ridley closed the door, then grinned at Piers. “That viscount.”
“Colin? Is it really you?”
“Now there’s my favorite little sister.”
Charlotte dashed across the sitting room and flung her arms around her brother-in-law, hugging him tight. “How on earth did you arrive so quickly?”
“Your mother sent an express. And I have a well-established talent for making speedy trips northward.”
“I’m so glad you’re here.”
Colin would put this right. Or more accurately, he would make it all a shambles, chuckle in a disarming way, put any scandal to rest, and then they could all sit down for luncheon.
Luncheon sounded lovely. She hadn’t been able to eat anything that morning, and she was growing so hungry.
“Please tell me you’re not considering anything stupid like dueling,” she said. “You know I’m a better shot than you are. Minerva would never forgive me.”
“We’re not going to duel. There isn’t any need.”
She sighed with relief. “Oh, good.”
“Granville means to propose this morning, and I’ve agreed to allow it.”
“Propose? But that’s absurd. The two of us . . . We were only talking.”
“Alone,” he pointed out.
“Yes, but it was only when the others came in that we hid.”
“In the window seat.” He looked at her meaningfully. “Where you overheard a passionate tryst.”
Charlotte sighed with frustration. “We didn’t do anything.”
Colin’s eyebrow rose in doubt. “I’m someone who’s gotten away with a great deal of mischief. I won’t believe you didn’t do anything.”
“There was nothing, I tell you. Not between us. Don’t you believe me?”
“I do. I believe you, pet. But unless these mysterious lovers come forward to take the blame, no one else will. And to be honest, the mere truth—that you were caught alone with him in such close quarters—could be enough to harm your prospects. It wasn’t very prudent of you, Charlotte.”
“Since when do you care anything for prudence? You’re an inveterate rascal.”
He held up a single finger in contradiction. “I was an inveterate rascal. Now I’m a father. And let me tell you, while Minerva might contest the old maxim that says reformed rakes make the best husbands, she would be first to agree that we make the most overprotective fathers. I used to enter a ballroom and see a garden of flowers, ripe for the plucking. Now I see my daughter. Dozens of her.”
“That sounds disturbing.”
“Tell me about it.” He shuddered. “My point is, I know all too well the untoward thoughts that lurk in men’s minds.”
“There is nothing untoward in Lord Granville’s mind. He has the most toward mind I’ve ever encountered.”
Even as she spoke the words, however, she wondered. She recalled the thumping of his heart in that window seat. The way he’d held her in his arms. Most of all, his sly teasing.
I’m speaking of bedsport, Miss Highwood. That much, at least, would be tolerable.
Heat swept over her skin.
“I’m just not ready to settle down,” she said. “Yes, I wanted the amusement of a London season, but I had no plans of considering marriage this soon.”
“Well, there’s something they say about best laid plans of mice and men. I’m fairly certain it’s in the Scriptures.”
“It’s from a poem by Robert Burns.”
“Really?” He gave a remorseless shrug. “I seldom read either. And by seldom, I mean never. However, I do know something about love, and how it laughs in the face of one’s intentions.”
“There’s no love involved here! We barely know each other. He doesn’t want this match any more than I do.”
“Oh, I doubt that.”
“Why?”
He tilted his head. Lord Granville sat in an armchair at the other end of the long, narrow room. She hadn’t noticed him come in. Had he been sitting there the entire time?
“Because the way he’s been looking at you makes me want to bludgeon things.”
“Colin. You’re not the bludgeoning sort.”
“I know! Believe me, I’m just as disturbed by these changes as you are.”
“What wretched timing, too.”
Colin put his hands on her shoulders. “Hear him out, pet. Considering what hangs in the balance, you owe yourself that much. I’ll support you in any decision you make. But you must be the one to make it.”
She nodded.
When he married Minerva, Colin had become the man of the family. However, he’d never been much of an authority figure. And as much as Charlotte prized her independence, she had almost been disappointed.
She’d never known her father. In her youth, she’d longed for a steady, male presence in her life. An older brother, an uncle . . . even a cousin would do. Just a man who could sweep into the room, with wisdom and command and only her best interests at heart, and say—