“Your niece,” she repeated in a whisper, the very softest expression written on her face. She didn’t know anything about his family, yet she believed him.
“Felicity’s mother is my half-sister. Her name is... was Mary Rose. We shared a father, though Mary was the result of an illicit affair. I didn’t know her, never even knew she existed until fairly recently. My father’s solicitor told me about her. She’d gone to him asking for my help and I gave it.”
“How did she die?”
“Giving birth to Felicity. I don’t know who the father is. She refused to reveal his name. I expect he’s a married man.”
“Probably a pillar of the community,” Dillie remarked with a snort. “Isn’t it always the way? I’m so sorry. I know you did your best to protect her. I’m glad you told me. Let me know if you need my help. In truth, I’ve been feeling lost lately, not quite sure what I’m supposed to be doing or where I belong in that big, empty house.”
He arched an eyebrow. “Empty? Isn’t it filled to the rafters with Farthingales now that the season is underway?”
She winced. “Yes, but it’s different. Lizbeth and Charles are quite grown up now, and I hardly recognize them. Aunt Julia is married, so she and Harry are happily residing with her new husband. None of the Yorkshire Farthingales have arrived yet, and I doubt the Devonshire Farthingales will join us this year.”
“Poor Daffy.”
She poked his shoulder. “Stop calling me that, you ungrateful wretch. I came out here to help you.”
“I know.” His expression turned serious. “I also appreciate your desire to help Felicity. I’ll take your suggestions into consideration.”
She nodded. “Just remember, you don’t have to be perfect. You just have to love her. She’ll respond to that. And if you happen to bring her down to London, please think of me. I’d love to have my earrings tugged on and my fashionable hairdo destroyed.”
He gently tugged on her ear. “Duly noted.”
“Well, I had better go back inside.” She held up her crumpled dance card. “Charles Ealing has claimed the second dance. Would you care to claim me for a dance?”
He arched an eyebrow. “No.”
“I see. Of course.” She looked so disappointed, as though she were a little cocker spaniel and he’d just kicked her.
He tugged on her ear again. “It isn’t safe for you. That’s all. Otherwise, I’d claim every damn one of them. Now that would set the gossips in a frenzy.”
She appeared startled. “You would?”
He cupped her chin in his hand and tipped her head up so that their gazes met. “I would. Every dance.”
And with those words, he felt the granite-hard shell he’d so carefully built around his heart begin to crack and crumble. He watched Dillie as she hurried back into the ballroom, her steps light and movements graceful.
He had to repair that protective outer shell. Fast.
He couldn’t let Dillie in. Not ever.
He seemed to be saying that a lot. Yet she was getting in anyway.
CHAPTER 6
IAN HAD UNDERSTOOD long ago that his mother didn’t love him and never would. His father hadn’t loved him either, his method of showing his disdain perhaps crueler, for he never shouted at him or beat him. He treated him like a ghost. Invisible. Beneath his notice. As dead to him as his brother actually was.
His parents’ contempt had been obvious to all in the Markham family. Unlike the Farthingales, his was a small family. One uncle and two male cousins on his father’s side. Two spinster aunts on his mother’s side. Since they all took their cues from his delightful parents, none of them liked him or cared a whit about him. Not a one, even though he had never shown them any discourtesy while growing up.
He rarely thought about them now. Until this week. Something was going on, some new plot hatching, and he needed to find out what it was. His mother hadn’t visited London in years, preferring the quieter life at Bath with her sisters. Yet, here she was, attending the Wakeford ball escorted by his cousins, Simon and Edmund.
She’d wasted no time in efficiently spreading lies about him.
The attacks to his reputation were commonplace. He’d endured the rumors and snide gossip for years, had often gone out of his way to prove them true. He wasn’t a saint. But the war years had changed him. As strange as it sounded, he’d gained a purpose to his life in fighting Napoleon’s army, and actually liked doing the right thing, protecting king and country.
Still, nothing was going to change the way his family felt about him. Not medals, not royal honors. What were they hoping to accomplish by coming to London? He had the support and trust of the royal family. If anything, his scheming family would only land themselves in trouble.