Drops of Gold(43)

“Should I call you ‘guv’nuh,’ then?”

Mr. Jonquil smiled again, precisely as she’d hoped he would. “‘Layton’ would be fine, would be splendid, actually.”

“Oh, I couldn’t—”

“Just for now,” he quickly explained. “I . . . I’ll . . . I’ll understand if you can’t . . . I mean, if you don’t want to . . . or don’t think . . .”

Marion rose from her chair and crossed to where he stood running his fingers through his hair. She laid a hand on his arm and smiled up at him. They stood there, eyes locked for a moment, and the lines on his face softened.

“Layton does fit you much better than ‘guv’nuh.’”

“I should hope so. Though—and I know I’ll probably regret this—‘Mary’ somehow doesn’t suit you.”

He looked so suddenly apprehensive that Marion had to laugh. She pressed a hand to her mouth to stifle the sound.

“I take it, then, I haven’t offended you.” His smile was almost boyish.

“My given name is Marion,” she explained.

“Marion,” he repeated on a whisper. He brushed his fingers along her cheek, which, of course, made her heart race even more and her cheeks heat. Half in love? Marion wasn’t entirely sure she wasn’t all the way there. “Marion.” He smiled gently. “Yes. That suits you much better.”

“I was named for my grandparents: Mary and Ian. And why I just told you that, I have no idea.” Marion felt her flush deepen.

“Probably because I told you all the minute details of my life.” Layton shrugged, his hand dropping back to his side again. “Paying me back in kind, I suppose.”

“You want all the sordid details of my past, then?” Marion retraced her steps, retaking her seat and her sewing. She was not particularly anxious to sew, but her heart had begun throbbing almost painfully at Layton’s closeness, and she needed a moment’s reprieve.

“Yes.” Layton sat with an air of authority. “I believe I do want all the sordid details.”

Double dungers! This could get sticky. Marion thought of the forged references she had given to Mrs. Sanders, of the various white lies she’d uttered since her arrival, a handful of facts she’d conveniently left out the few times she’d been compelled to speak of her history.

“There is not much to tell, I’m afraid.”

“Which county did you call home as a child?” Layton—she liked having leave to think of him that way—obviously didn’t mean to let her off so easily.

“Derbyshire.” Marion wondered if he heard her longing. She missed home. “I’ve left that county only once in all my life. Before now, that is.”

“I have been to Derbyshire many times. Whereabouts in that county?”

“Near Swarkestone,” Marion replied. That was true enough. She prayed he didn’t ask for any details.

“You’ve lived there all your life?” He watched her with obvious curiosity. Could he sense her reluctance to continue this line of conversation? Would he wonder why?

Marion nodded. “My father took me to London once when I was very young, younger than Caroline, in fact. That was the last time I left the area I still think of as home, until I was grown and needed employment.”

“Why did you need employment, Marion?” Then, almost under his breath, Layton added, “That name is so much better.”

Marion had to smile. She agreed with him on that point. “Why does anyone need employment?” Marion philosophized. “My financial situation quite suddenly reversed. It was either work or starve. I felt working the preferable course of action.”

“Your family is genteel, then?”

“Quite.” She had no intention of divulging more than that. “I once had dreams of putting servants in their places rather than being the humble recipient of such censure myself.” She smiled, probably a little wistfully. She had had so many dreams once upon a time.

“Haven’t you any siblings who might have looked after you?” Layton looked concerned, watching her with a level of scrutiny that made her nervous. There was only so much she could tell him without risking everything she’d worked for. “Surely your father must object to your seeking employment.”

Lud, wouldn’t he! “My father’s objections have been rendered quite moot,” Marion said.

“Ignoring his wishes—”

“My father is dead.” She quickly got to her feet, suddenly very tired of the interrogation. “I do not wear gray because I am fond of it, nor because of my lowly station, which I assure you I do not need to be reminded of.”