Regency Christmas Wishes(109)

Cecilia sat on the stairs and leaned against the banister, wishing herself away from the turmoil, uncertain what to do. Probably Lord Trevor would understand now if she wanted to leave in the morning, even if she had promised she would stay. It was safe in Bath. She shook her head, uneasy with the truthfulness of it.

“Is this seat taken?”

She looked up in surprise, shy again, but amused in spite of herself. “No. There are plenty of steps. You need only choose.”

Lord Trevor climbed the stairs and sat on the step below her. He yawned, then rested his back against the banister. She didn’t want him to say anything, because she didn’t want his pity, but she was too timid to begin the conversation. When, after a lengthy silence, he did speak, he surprised her.

“Miss Ambrose, I wish you had slapped my wretched niece silly, instead of just closed the door on her. You have oceans more forbearance than I will ever possess.”

“I doubt that, sir,” she said, and chose her own words carefully, since he was doing the same. “I’ve learned that protestation is rarely effective.”

“Not the first time, eh?” he asked, his voice casual.

“And probably not the last.” She rose to go—where she did not know—but Lord Trevor took her hand and kept her where she was. “I . . . I do hope you were not too harsh with her.”

He released his hold on her. “Just stay put a while, Miss Ambrose, if you will,” he told her. “I was all ready to haul her over my knee and give her a smack.” He chuckled. “That probably would have earned me a chapter in the tome she is undoubtedly going to write to her precious Lysander in the morning.”

“But you didn’t.”

“No, indeed. I merely employed that tactic I learned years ago from watching some of the other barristers who plead in court, and looked her up and down until her knees knocked. Then I told her I was ashamed of her.” He leaned his elbow on the tread above and looked at her. “And I am, Miss Ambrose. Believe me, I am.”

The look that he gave her was so contrite that she felt tears behind her eyelids. I had better make light of this, she thought. I’m sure he wants me to assure him that it is all right, and that I didn’t mind. She forced herself to look him in the eye. Even in the gloom of the stairwell, she could tell that nothing of the sort was on his mind. She had never seen a more honest gaze.

“I won’t deny that it hurt, Lord Trevor,” she replied, her voice quiet, “but do you know, I’ve been sitting here and thinking that it’s been pretty easy the last few holidays to hide myself in Bath. And . . . and I really have nothing to hide, do I?”

There. She had told a near stranger something that she could not even write to her mother, when that dear woman had written many times from India to ask her how she really did, on her own and without the protection of her distinguished missionary family.

Again he surprised her. He took her hand and held it. “Nothing to hide at all, my dear Miss Ambrose. Would it surprise you that I have been doing that very thing? I have been confining myself to the area of my rooms near Lincoln’s Inn and Old Bailey for nearly eleven years. We are more alike than my silly niece would credit.”

Her bewilderment must have shown on her face, because he stood up and pulled her up, too. “If you’re not too tired, or too irritated at the ignorance and ill-will in one little dower house, I believe I want to explain myself. My dear, do you care for sherry?”

“If it’s good sherry.”

“The best that smugglers can find! I’d forgotten how excellent my brother’s wine cellar is. Do join me in the sitting room, Miss Ambrose.”

She didn’t really have a choice, because he never released her hand. Mystified rather than embarrassed now, she followed him into the sitting room. He let go of her hand to pull another chair close to the fireplace, and indicated that she sit. She did, with a sigh. The fire was just warm enough, and the pillow he had placed behind her back just the right touch. He poured her a glass of sherry from the table between them, handed it to her, then sat in the other chair and propped his feet on the fender.

“I told you I am the black sheep, didn’t I?”

She had to laugh. “And I am, well, a little colorful, too.”

He joined in her laughter, not the least self-conscious, which warmed her heart. He surprised her by quickly leaning forward to touch her cheek. “Your skin is the most amazing shade of olive. Ah, is that the Egyptian in you? How fine! And brown eyes that are probably the envy of nations.” He chuckled. “I don’t mean to sound like a rakehell, Miss A.” He looked at the far wall. “I suppose I am used to speaking my mind.”