Kitabı oku: «The Defiant Debutante», sayfa 2

‘I know.’

Her eyes were questioning and direct, and her voice was steady, but there was something in it of a frustrated, frightened child.

‘How is she? In her letter she mentioned that she was ill—that she was wounded when Indians attacked your home.’

‘My mother is dying, sir.’

Carefully Henry schooled his features as he took note of the pain showing naked on Angelina’s young face upturned to his. A hint of tears brightened her translucent eyes, which were like windows laying bare the suffering and many hardships of her young life.

‘I’m so very sorry, my dear. How dreadful this must be for you.’

‘Mother knows she’s dying, but she set her mind on not doing so until she heard from you. She didn’t know if you would come in person. She didn’t expect you to. She thought that perhaps you would write in response to her letter.’

‘We used to be very close, your mother and I, before she married your father and came to live in America.’ He averted his eyes when Angelina gave him a curious, questioning look. ‘Come—walk with me back to the hotel. Mr Phipps, the proprietor, has kindly offered me the use of his buggy. You can take me to her.’

Mr Phipps was a man who liked to talk. All Henry had had to do was sit back and listen when he made it known that he was here to see Mrs Hamilton and her daughter, Angelina.

‘Real nice is Miss Angelina,’ Mr Phipps had told him. ‘Shame about her ma an’pa, though—what the Indians did an’ all. After the attack an’ when she’d buried her pa, she brought her ma back here an’ bought the old McKay place down by the gorge. It was a wreck of a place so it didn’t cost much.’

‘Did Angelina see what happened?’ Henry had asked him.

‘She saw all right—more than is right for a child to see. Done killed the Indian who killed her pa, she did. Stabbed him right through the heart, accordin’ to Will.’

Unable to comprehend what Angelina must have suffered during the Indian attack, Henry’s expression remained unchanged as he absorbed this shocking piece of information. ‘Will?’

‘Will Casper. He was out west at the time an’ came back east with her and her ma. Been right good to them, too. Don’t know what they’d ’ave done without him.’

‘How do they manage?’

‘Miss Angelina spends all her time huntin’ an fishin’ an’ lookin’ after her ma, while Will does all the work about the place—when he’s not off trappin’ beaver. They ’aven’t much—but what they do ’ave they make the best of.’

Moving towards the door through which the Englishman had disappeared, Angelina stopped on the threshold, suddenly feeling like an outsider in her own home. Knowing her mother wanted to be alone with him, she would go no further, but before the bedroom door closed she saw the Englishman bend and pick her mother’s limp hand up off the patchwork quilt and place it to his lips. At the same time her mother raised her free hand and gently placed it on his silver head, as if bestowing a title on the Duke of Mowbray. It was a scene that would remain indelibly printed on her mind for all time.

When he emerged from Lydia’s room after what seemed like an eternity, Henry passed through the house to the veranda, welcoming the cool air after the heat of the sick room. Night had fallen and a languid breeze stirred the trees. The air carried a heavy fragrance of jasmine, wood smoke and cedar wood.

Henry had been taken aback at first to see how ill Lydia was, and he knew she wasn’t long for this world. As fragile as a plucked wildflower, she lay still and as white as death against the pillows. But when he’d gazed once more into those glorious dark eyes, he had seen that the years had not quenched their glow.

Lydia had been his grande passion, the woman he had been prepared to relinquish his title and his family to marry. She had been part of his flesh and his spirit, and a large part of him had died when she left him. Without warning and without his knowledge she had married Richard Hamilton, sacrificing herself for his own sake, and gone to America. In a brooding silence he was conscious of the girl standing silently behind him, waiting for him to speak, her dog, Mr Boone, at her feet.

Henry turned and looked at her. The soft, silvery moonlight washed over her, touching the delicate, pensive features of her face. He saw the questioning black eyes in cheeks pale with apprehension, and it was only then, upon meeting that dark, misty gaze, that he realised the enormity of the responsibility Lydia had placed in his hands.

‘You know why your mother wrote to me, Angelina,’ Henry said, sitting in one of two battered old wicker chairs. ‘You also know that I am her cousin and closest kin. It is most unfortunate that on your late father’s side there are no close relatives. It is your mother’s wish that I take charge of you, and take you back with me to England. Would you like that?’

Angelina’s reaction to say no was instinctive, but, realising that this gentleman had travelled a long way to help her mother and herself, she could not be so discourteous. It wasn’t that she disliked the Englishman, but the question of being forced into something she had no control over that troubled her. Independence had become a part of everyday life, and she had no wish to renounce that.

‘I don’t know.’

‘I have promised your mother that before we leave America I will legally make you my ward. When she is gone, as your next of kin your responsibility rests entirely with me.’

‘Are you really my only living relative?’

Henry frowned. It was one question he had anticipated, and since he now knew what Lydia had told Angelina about her grandparents—that they were dead and nothing more—he was capable of answering. He would rather not, because it meant having to lie. However, he didn’t see how it could be evaded if he was to abide by his promise to Lydia.

‘Your grandparents on your mother’s side were killed in a carriage accident some years ago,’ he told her in a gentle, straightforward voice, praying she would never discover the truth.

‘My grandparents never wrote to her, and she would never speak of them. Do you know why?’

He nodded, silently cursing Jonathan Adams, Lydia’s father. Anne, his wife and Henry’s own aunt, had been a gentle woman, who had lived in awe of her husband, and had been unable to stand against him when he had coldly cut Lydia out of their lives.

‘When your mother married your father and left England, Angelina, it was against your grandfather’s wishes. He was a hard, unforgiving man and meant to punish her for disobeying him. He cut off all connection with her—and insisted that your grandmother did the same. You mother never forgave them.’

How true this was, Henry thought sadly. Lydia’s lack of forgiveness was no temporary state of affairs. With great intensity she had insisted that there must be no connection between Angelina and her grandmother. Not wishing to distress her further, Henry had promised he would abide by her wishes.

Angelina sat on the top step of the veranda with her back propped against a wooden rail. ‘Won’t someone like me be a burden to you in England—a financial one?’

Henry was mildly amused at her words so innocently and frankly spoken. ‘I can well afford it. It will be a pleasure. And you are far too lovely and independent to be a burden. You will learn to be a fine lady,’ he told her, wanting to tell her not to change, that she was just perfect the way she was. But, if she was to live in the social world he inhabited, regretfully it was necessary.

‘How should I address you? For me to call you “my Lord” every time I speak to you is too formal and quite ridiculous.’

‘I couldn’t agree more. Uncle Henry will be appropriate.’

She considered this for a moment and then nodded. ‘Yes. Uncle Henry it is then.’

Angelina’s new uncle had a warmth of manner that made her feel as if she had known him a long time. His physical impression might be one of age, yet his twinkling eyes and willing smile were the epitome of eternal youth. Over the distance they smiled at each other, comfortable together, sharing a moment of accord on the veranda that seemed to bind them together.

‘It is obvious to me that your education seems to have been taken care of, so we’ll have no trouble in that quarter,’ Henry remarked at length. ‘Your pronunciation of the English language is excellent.’

‘Thank you. I am also conversant in French, Latin and some Greek, too,’ Angelina confessed proudly. ‘Despite the everyday hardships of living in Ohio, my mother saw to that.’

Henry’s admiration for her was growing all the time.

‘Do you have a wife?’ Angelina asked suddenly, with the natural curiosity of a child.

‘No,’ he answered, startled by the abruptness of her question, but not offended by it. ‘I never found a woman I wanted to spend the rest of my life with—except, perhaps, one,’ he said softly, his eyes clouding with memory, wondering how Angelina would feel if she knew that her beloved father had been accepted by her mother as a hasty second best.

‘But isn’t it the custom for gentlemen of your standing to marry to beget an heir?’

‘I had no intention of adhering to custom by chaining myself to any woman I might only have a passing fancy for, in order to beget an heir. Besides, I have a perfectly acceptable heir in my nephew, Alex—my brother’s son.’

Angelina’s eyes became alert. ‘Alex?’

‘Alexander Henry Frederick Montgomery, the seventh Earl of Arlington and Lord Montgomery—which are just two of his titles. His friends call him Alex.’

Angelina’s eyes widened in awe. ‘Gracious me! What an awesome responsibility it must be to have so many names. Doesn’t he feel weighted down by so many titles?’

‘Not in the least. He was born to them and learned to accept and ignore them from an early age. One day he will become the sixth Duke of Mowbray—following my demise, you understand. His title as the seventh Earl of Arlington he inherited from his mother’s family. The sixth earl died several years ago, and as the estate is unentailed he left it directly to Alex—with provision made for his mother, who was an only child. He made representations to the King that Alex be given the title of seventh Earl on his demise. You’ll meet him when we get to England. He is the only son of my brother, who died when Alex was fifteen. Alex is now twenty-eight—and I swear that young man is the reason for my hair turning white,’ he chuckled softly.

‘Is he married?’

‘Despite being one of the most eligible bachelors in England, I’ve all but despaired of ever seeing him suitably married.’

‘Why? What’s wrong with him?’

‘Nothing. He hasn’t got two heads or anything like that.’ Henry chuckled aloud. ‘It is his unequivocal wish to remain a bachelor and childless. I cannot hide the fact that he’s an exacting man, who insists on the highest standards from all those he employs. However, he can be quite charming, when it suits him.’

‘What does he do?’ Angelina asked, already in awe of Alex Montgomery.

‘Alex handles all my business and financial affairs—as well as his own. He has a brilliant mind and a head for figures that shames me. He drives himself hard, demanding too much of himself—and others. Ever since he took over he’s increased all my holdings considerably. Now I’m in my dotage I’m perfectly content to sit back and let him handle everything. Oh, he consults me now and then, but business is not my forte.’

‘And do you trust him?’

‘Implicitly. Besides, my dear…’he chuckled softly, his grey eyes twinkling merrily ‘…if I didn’t, I wouldn’t dare tell him so.’

Angelina frowned. He sounds quite formidable. He’s bound to resent me. How do you think he’ll react?’

Henry grinned. ‘He’ll be outraged when he finds out I have made myself your guardian—but he’ll soon get used to having you around. Besides, there’s not a lot he can do about it.’ He relaxed, regarding her warmly. ‘Don’t worry, my dear. You’ll soon get used to Alex.’

Just two days after Henry Montgomery had come to Boston, Lydia slipped quietly away in her sleep.

Angelina’s heart was heavy with sadness, but she didn’t give in to her grief. Her mother had suffered greatly, and now she was at peace. Henry gave no outward sign to Angelina of his own private emotions, but his face was lined, his eyes dull with a deep sorrow.

It was difficult for Will to stand on the bustling quayside and watch Angelina board the ship. Her leaving would leave a huge hole in his heart.

Feeling quite forlorn, a hard lump of tears formed in Angelina’s throat as she looked into Will’s rheumy eyes. He looked lost and torn and old. Although it broke her heart to do so, she had decided to leave Mr Boone behind, in the hope that he would help console Will and that it would ease their parting. Will had carved her a wonderful likeness of Mr Boone out of ebony. It was packed in her trunk and she would cherish it always.

‘Goodbye, Will. I’ll never forget you, you know that. I promise I’ll write and let you know what it’s like in England.’

‘You go and make your ma proud,’ Will said, his voice hoarse with emotion, wondering where she would send her letters to when he had disappeared into the backwoods of North America. ‘You’re going to do all those things she talked about. You’ll dazzle all those English gents—you see if you don’t. Remember it’s what your ma wanted. She told you that.’

‘I do remember, Will, and I’ll never forget. Ever.’

Will’s eyes met those of Henry Montgomery in mutual concern. Unbeknown to Angelina, Will had told the Englishman what had happened to her on the night of the Shawnee massacre, and how he had rescued her. He hoped that, in knowing, the English duke would have a deeper understanding of his ward.

Henry had listened to all Will had said with a sense of horror. Will had told him that there was still something about that night Angelina refused to speak of. It was like an inner wound that was bleeding. The secret lurked in her gaze. Was it the shock of the massacre and her father’s death that caused it—or something else? Whatever it was might be eased when she reached England. A new country, a new home—a new life.

Chapter Two

The sky was overcast as the carriage ventured north towards Mayfair. Angelina devoured the sights and sounds of what her mother had told her was the most exciting city in the world. On reaching Brook Street she gaped in awe when the door of one of the impressive houses was opened by a servant meticulously garbed in white wig, mulberry coat edged in gold and white breeches. His face was impassive as he stepped aside to let them enter.

‘Welcome to Brook Street,’ Henry said, smiling as he watched his ward’s reaction.

Angelina was completely overwhelmed by the beauty and wealth of the house. Standing in the centre of the white marble floor she looked dazedly about her, wondering if she had not been brought to some royal palace by mistake. She wasn’t to know that compared to Mowbray Park, Henry’s home in Sussex, this house on Brook Street was considered to be of moderate proportions. Craning her neck and looking upward, she was almost dazzled by the huge chandelier suspended from the ceiling, dripping with hundreds of tiny crystal pieces.

A superior-looking man with a dignified bearing and dressed all in black stepped forward. ‘Welcome back, your Grace. You are expected. I trust you had a pleasant crossing from America.’

‘Yes, thank you, Bramwell. Is my nephew at home?’

The butler replied, ‘No, your Grace. He’s out of town for a few days, staying with Sir Nathan and his wife in Surrey.’

‘I see.’ Henry smiled at Angelina, who looked visibly relieved by the reprieve. ‘Perhaps you would like to see your room and freshen up before dinner, my dear. Show Miss Hamilton to her room, will you, Bramwell.’

‘Certainly, your Grace. The green room has been prepared. I’m certain it will meet with Miss Hamilton’s approval. It’s quiet and overlooks the garden,’ he told Angelina, before leading her up the elegant staircase.

Entering a large room on the first floor, Angelina blinked at the extravagance and unaccustomed luxury. The walls were lined with mirrors and pictures depicting placid rural scenes, and the bed hangings were in the same pale green brocade embroidered with ivory silk as the windows.

‘Oh, what a lovely room,’ she gasped.

‘I thought you’d like it.’ Bramwell directed his gaze towards the dressing room when a fresh-faced young maid emerged, her arms full of linen. ‘This is Miss Bates, Miss Hamilton. She has been appointed your personal maid.’

When Bramwell had departed Angelina smiled warmly at her maid, who bobbed a curtsy. Two or three years older than Angelina, she was quite pretty, small and rather plump, with the majority of her dark brown hair concealed beneath a modest white cap.

‘I’ve never had a personal maid before,’ Angelina confessed. ‘What does it mean?’ She saw surprise register on Miss Bates’s face, which was replaced by an indulgent little smile. No doubt she had decided that, as she was from America, her new mistress’s ignorance could be excused, that perhaps people over there weren’t as civilised or refined as they were in England.

‘Why—I see to all your personal needs—take care of your clothes—everything, really,’ she explained cheerfully.

‘Well, it seems you will have to teach me—and I have much to learn. Where I come from, unless you are very rich, one doesn’t have personal maids.’

Miss Bates seemed to be lost for words at this candid admission. ‘I’m sure you’ll soon get used to having me do things for you.’

‘Perhaps, but I simply refuse to call you Miss Bates. What is your Christian name?’

‘Pauline, miss.’

‘Then since we are to spend a good deal of time together, I shall address you as Pauline,’ she said, as two footmen entered with her trunk.

The following afternoon while her uncle was resting, and feeling hemmed in and restless at having to remain indoors because of the rain that continued to pour down, Angelina wandered through the house. Her uneducated eye was unable to place a value on the things she saw, but she was able to appreciate and admire the quality of the beautifully furnished rooms.

The library, with its highly polished floor and vividly coloured oriental carpets, was like an Aladdin’s cave—a treasure trove of precious leatherbound tomes. It was a room which, to Angelina, encapsulated every culture and civilisation of the universe, where bookshelves stretched from floor to ceiling, broken only by a huge white marble fireplace and long windows. Happily she browsed along the shelves, looking for a book to suit her mood, eventually finding just what she was looking for.

Unaccustomed to being indoors for such a long period, she placed her books on the desk and went to the window, leaning her shoulder against the window frame, gazing in a somewhat disconsolate manner at the garden, glad to see it had stopped raining and envying the gardener pottering about among the flower beds. Unable to resist the temptation to join him, but not wishing to dirty her dainty slippers, she dashed to her room and donned an old pair of stout boots she had brought with her.

She entered the garden by the long French windows in the library, and spent half an hour chatting to the gardener and helping him debud some of the sodden roses—which Jarvis thought highly irregular considering who she was. Then the rain came down again and the wind rose with a vengeance, so she made a dash for the house. On entering the library she was unable to prevent the sudden gust that sent some loose papers blowing off the desk all over the place and a tiny figurine from crashing to the floor.

‘You stupid, reckless little fool. Do you have to enter the house like a bloody whirlwind?’ a voice thundered.

Angelina’s face was a frozen mask. In her struggle to keep the door from blowing off its hinges, she hadn’t seen the man sitting at the desk with damp, unruly locks of raven black hair tumbling wildly over his head. Scraping his chair back, he stood up and strode towards her, his face livid.

Like an animal on the defensive, Angelina’s eyes narrowed and flashed. ‘You are just about the rudest man I have ever come across and you have a foul mouth for such a well-bred gentleman—I assume you are Lord Montgomery.’

‘Precisely, and I know who you are—Miss Hamilton.’ He seemed to lose control of his expression momentarily as his gaze passed over her, from the top of her shining head to her boots, where it froze.

Angelina followed his gaze and saw her mud-caked boots dirtying the parquet flooring. Soil clung to the front of her skirt, resisting all her efforts to brush it away. Despairing, she groaned inwardly with frustration. For two days dressed like a lady, she had waited for the master of the house to appear, and what good had it done her? Having no intention of apologising for the way she looked, ignoring the irate nobleman, she bent down and eased off her boots, placing them by the door. She then further astounded his lordship by going down on her knees and beginning to pick up the pieces of the broken figurine.

‘Leave it,’ he snapped. ‘The servants will clean it up.’

‘I made the mess so I will do it. I don’t wish to put anyone to any trouble.’

‘I said leave it. The servants are here for your convenience as well as mine.’ When she took no notice he reached out and grasped her arm, his fingers biting into her flesh. There was a loud crack as Angelina slapped his hand away. Momentarily startled, he drew back. ‘Why—you hot-headed little savage,’ he barked. ‘What the hell are you trying to do?’

His scowl bore into her as Angelina rubbed her smarting hand. ‘That will teach you not to touch me,’ she snapped, hotly irate. ‘It’s your own fault. Keep your hands to yourself in future.’

Alex’s lean cheeks flexed tensely and his grey eyes narrowed. ‘Do you have any idea how exasperating you are?’ he gritted. ‘And do you have to appear looking like a labourer?’

‘I’m not afraid of hard work,’ she snapped testily.

‘I imagine you’re not, but you will find that here you will do things differently.’

The pieces gathered up, Angelina got to her stockinged feet and placed them on the desk. ‘I’m sorry I broke it,’ she said, unaware of the streak of mud on her cheek as she faced him squarely, two fiercely indomitable wills meeting head on and each refusing to step aside to allow the other to pass. His face was as cold and hard as the stone from which his fine house was built. ‘I didn’t mean to. I suppose it was valuable.’

‘Priceless.’

‘If I had some money of my own I would offer to pay for it, but I don’t.’ Angelina recognised authority when she saw it. Everything about this illustrious lord bespoke power, control and command. The hard set of his darkly handsome face did not suggest much tolerance or forgiveness. ‘No doubt you have already made up your mind where to bury me?’

‘Not yet. But I dare say I will.’ His voice was of a rich, deep timbre. He watched as she flexed her arm. ‘Is anything wrong?’

‘You hurt my arm,’ she said crossly, her dark eyes narrowing and accusing.

‘I apologise for that—if you will apologise for appearing like a field hand.’ He waited, his grey eyes penetrating.

‘I suppose so,’ was all Angelina was prepared to relent.

Dressed in snug-fitting, calf-coloured trousers tucked into highly polished tan boots, and a fine white lawn shirt open at the throat, his body well honed and muscular, Angelina could see there was something purposeful and inaccessible about Alex Montgomery, and those grey eyes, which penetrated her own, were as cold and hard as newly forged steel. There was no warmth in them, no humour to soften those granite features.

She sensed his amazement that she had the effrontery to face him as an equal. Clearly this wasn’t what he’d expected—and certainly not what she’d intended. She knew better than to be rude to a man in his own house, but after suffering the indignity of being spoken to so rudely and manhandled, she had mentally drawn the battle lines and moved her guns into position. They looked at each other hard, suspicion and mistrust on both sides.

His expression became suddenly thoughtful and he inspected her upturned face as if something puzzled him.

‘Do you always subject people to such close scrutiny when you meet them for the first time?’ she asked directly. ‘I am not used to being looked at like that and find it extremely disagreeable. Is there something wrong with my face that makes you examine it so thoroughly?’

‘When I look at you I think unaccountably of fairies and imps and things, and have half a mind to demand whether you have bewitched Uncle Henry and my servants—according to my uncle, every one of them seems to be under your spell.’

‘I will not argue the point, but I assure you, Lord Montgomery, that it is not my intention to disrupt your household.’

With a look that betrayed a mild degree of surprise, he nodded. ‘Thank you. I respect your frankness.’ Thrusting his hands into his pockets, he walked to the window, standing with his back to her while he gazed out. His body was tense, his shoulders squared. ‘I hope the servants are looking after you,’ he said at length.

Angelina was uncomfortable, but she was relieved to hear civility in his tone. ‘Yes—thank you,’ she replied, imitating his politeness. ‘Everyone is being very kind.’

‘And you like the house?’

‘Very much. But then, who wouldn’t?’ she said, warm in her admiration. ‘Have you spoken to Uncle Henry since you arrived home?’

He turned and looked at her. ‘Briefly.’

‘And did he tell you anything about me?’

Alex nodded. ‘He told me that when your mother died he did the Christian thing by making you his ward and giving you a home. He assures me you are a charming, delightful and remarkably intelligent young woman who, for the short time he has known you, has made him extremely happy. In short, you are an absolute treasure.’

Angelina was stung by the irony of his words. ‘But you don’t believe him.’

‘Not if the past few minutes are anything to go by. I am more astute than my uncle. I prefer to reserve judgment.’

Lifting her chin proudly, Angelina met his gaze, not with defiance but a quiet resolve. ‘You don’t want me here, do you, Lord Montgomery?’

‘I love and hold my uncle in the highest esteem, Miss Hamilton. I may not be happy about what he did, but whether I like it or not you are here now and a member of this family. As such, that is how you will be treated and how you will behave.’

‘I realise that my presence in your house is an inconvenience, but taking everything into account, you must see that I have been more inconvenienced than you.’

‘In which case, since we have no choice in the matter, the obvious solution is that we should both try to make the best of things and be cordial to each other. Don’t you agree?’

‘Yes. I have no wish to upset Uncle Henry,’ she said.

Absently she tucked a stray lock of silky hair behind her ear that had dared escape her tight braid. The unconscious gesture caused Alex to study her properly for the first time, and he was amazed by what he saw. Her hair was the colour of rich mahogany with highlights of red and gold, making him think of harvest corn, chestnuts and autumn fires. Parted at the center, it was drawn back and woven together in one long thick braid that reached her waist. Accustomed to seeing women with neatly arranged curls and ringlets, he found this style unusual, but strangely attractive on this young woman. He had the absurd desire to reach out and set her hair free and let it spill about her shoulders, convinced it would glow with the glorious vibrancy of autumn leaves.

Her eyes, surrounded by thick, curling sooty lashes, were captivating. At first they looked so dark to be almost black, but on closer inspection they were seen to be not black at all, but the colour of two glorious purple velvet-soft pansies. Her skin was flushed with warmth like that of a ripe peach, and she had an enigmatic mouth, ripe and full of wonderful promise. The daffodil-yellow gown she wore revealed a female form that was faultless, slim and strong, with long legs and curves in all the right places. With angular cheekbones her face was alluring, interesting, and overall there was an innocence and vulnerability about her that would put a practised seducer like him beyond the realm of her experience.

‘You are not at all what I expected.’

‘What did you expect?’ she retorted sharply. ‘A creature from the wilds who is half-savage, with brown skin and feathers in her hair?’

Alex smiled tightly. Nathan had said something along those lines. ‘Heaven forbid! I certainly didn’t expect to find someone with an interest in fine literature.’

‘Education has reached America, you know. We are civilised.’

‘Looking as you do just now, Miss Hamilton, I would say you have some way to go before you reach that status,’ he said with an ironic curl of his lips. ‘However, it’s apparent to me that you are extremely clever.’

Angelina’s eyes narrowed. She could feel her ire returning. ‘Something tells me that it is not my interest in fine literature that you speak of,’ she said, her smile deliberately cold and ungracious. ‘It is plain to me that you are displeased about something

Alex crossed to his desk and perched his hip on the edge, crossing his arms with a casualness that aggravated Angelina’s temper still further. His imperturbable gaze studied her stormy eyes. ‘Miss Hamilton, when I read my uncle’s letter informing me he had gone to America, everything about you displeased me at the time,’ he told her firmly.

Angelina’s temper flared at this open affront. ‘I thought it might. And I sense your displeasure has increased since. Is it so very strange for people to look after relatives who find themselves destitute?’