The Fugitive Heiress Read Free

from under her lashes.
    This time the smile was rueful but warmer than before. “You are perceptive. I’m forced to admit that Mr. Ashley, my excellent secretary, was present when Paulson brought word of your arrival. I have him to thank for my knowledge.”
    Catheryn smoothed her skirt carefully, grateful for the pause made necessary by the arrival of their refreshments. She could usually size people up quickly, but the earl presented something of an enigma. Though he seemed to maintain an aloof dignity, there had been those brief, encouraging flickers of humor. Paulson set a tray containing glasses of lemonade and Madeira as well as a plate of small, delicious-looking cakes on the table, effectively breaking her train of thought. He then executed a bow rather deeper than the one with which he had greeted her and inquired whether there would be anything further. Dambroke waved him away.
    Catheryn took a small sip of her lemonade. Then, drawing a resolute breath and setting the glass down, she looked directly into the blue eyes opposite her own. “Lord Dambroke, I must thank you for your kindness in acknowledging a relationship that is distant at best, for, quite frankly, I have come here hoping to take advantage of it.” She paused, looking away, seeking words. “Oh dear, I knew this would be difficult. Perhaps, after all, it would be easier to present my case to your mother.”
    “Is your case so desperate then?” he asked gently.
    “Not … not desperate. Only uncomfortable. I’m afraid I’ve run away from home.” Seeing that he looked shocked and not a little severe, she felt herself plunging into unknown waters. “I know I ought to have written first, my lord, but I was afraid you’d misunderstand and insist I let myself be guided by my aunt and uncle.”
    “Are you not afraid I will say the same thing now, Miss Westering? I must tell you,” he added sternly when she stared down at her hands once more, “that my first reaction is to hear no more of this but to send you packing instead. My butler informed me that you brought no maidservant. Am I to infer then that you traveled alone all the way from Somerset?” She nodded, still looking at her hands. “Good gracious, child! ’Tis most unseemly! What were your relatives about to allow it!”
    She looked up gravely. “I believe I explained, sir, that they did not exactly allow it. And I could not bring my maid, for she is actually in my aunt’s employ and would have apprised her of my plan. It was difficult enough to rouse Bert. I am not a schoolgirl, my lord.”
    “And who, if you please, is Bert?”
    Catheryn smiled. “His name is Bert Ditchling, sir, and he was my grandfather’s estate manager. He’s been my groom since we removed to Caston Manor. I know such a change of position must seem strange, but it is not. Bert was raised at Westering. When Grandpapa gambled away the better part of his lands and fortune and had to release most of his servants, Bert refused to go. For several years before his death, Grandpapa suffered from the gout and was unable to leave his bed except to sit sometimes in a chair, and he came to depend entirely upon Bert. After he died, Bert refused to abandon me—his words, sir—and my uncle was kind enough to allow him to accompany me to the manor. I might add that Bert agrees with you wholeheartedly on the subject of my journey to London. I have been forced to endure his scolds all day.”
    “Knowledge of where my duty lies gives me the feeling that you should endure mine as well, Miss Westering.” She looked at him anxiously, and he added more mildly that he would endeavor to restrain himself. “You speak kindly of your uncle. I confess a curiosity to know what necessitated this flight.”
    She blushed. “It was not entirely my uncle, sir, but also his son, who believes himself in love with me. I don’t know what ails the man, but it’s rather wearing.”
    Though she had hoped to provoke it, his laughter was